2024-08-08
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/blah/2024-08-08.html
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It's the wee hour of the morning, nearly 0333 in my time zone. I'm hunched over
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the keyboard like an alcoholic with its only bottle of whiskey, a heroin addict
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with something arbitrary like some stick or something. I've been somewhat, kind
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of, unemployed - not really, as I have a job at [...] I'm starting on the
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ninth, but I put my two weeks' notice in and took them and now I've no
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obligations as a result of employment 'til the ninth. Something primal has
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awakened in me. My roommates don't know how to use the microwave. Here's what
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they do: they pop the food in, watch the turntable spin inside the little view-
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port, watch the cheese melt or ramen boil or butter soften, and when it
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finishes they hit STOP and take the freshly heated food out of the microwave.
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We are all scared of the microwave. I never used one in Maine, [...] never used
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one in [...], nor did [...] here... the [...]s did use microwaves, I believe,
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but [...] uses the microwave like a fox figuring out how to get a rabbit out of
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a snare, hovering around it despite setting a time, eager to get the contents.
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These are the sort of things I notice, not having a job. The terrible little
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details. The microwave display is always on, as there's always a remainder, a
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little bit left to go before someone hit STOP. I imagine the next user would
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hit START, run the time out, add another minute like when you find the parking
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meter already has one or two quarters in it. 0:11 just now. I hit STOP again.
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0:00. STOP one more time. Now the display is off. The little things I notice.
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I've been reading Bukowski lately - Bukowski! Most dirty old men keep their
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dirty old thoughts in their head, the sly tricksters - Bukowski takes his and
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makes a million off the publishing, goes to the track with it and loses half of
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it on a horse that had low odds in the first place. Capitalism takes the skim
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off workers' creams. Then spends the rest of the money on prostitutes - a
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girl's gotta eat. I get off to guro silently in the wee hours of the morning,
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alone, hopefully. Bukowski attends an orgy, loudly announces his ejaculation,
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shoots a hearty stream of cum into a lass he doesn't know has syphilis. Love is
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a dog from hell. Yes indeed. Maybe I'll attend orgies, get syphilis in my
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fifties too. Maybe I'll end up like one of the chicks he'd really dig. My ass
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is nice but not Hollywood nice. I don't want syphilis though.
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: so why did I get in an argument with one of my roommates?
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Well, why not? There are a lot of reasons why - it is a good friend of mine,
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despite everything, and I have a deep respect not only for its professional
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work but for its character itself. Those are two of a million but this isn't
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about the why not, now, is it?
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Why? Because I was pissed, right pissed, and I could feel the frustration in my
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fingertips carving needle-like cuts into the air that was how abrasive I felt.
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Like a low-grade sandpaper. And I knew my speech would cut worse than my
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movement did - the pen is mightier than the sword, after all - and I knew I
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would say some things I would regret. And I did. And I felt like shit before,
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like even shittier shit - diarrhea? is that how you spell that? - afterwards,
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and in the middle I felt quite rotten too. And my roommate was probably right,
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but I think in a lot of ways I was right too. But the real crux of the matter,
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the real Why Then, Why There, Why In That Manner, was that I was properly
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pissed.
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I was pissed because, for the dozenth time, it was telling me I should get a
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job other than [...]. A better-paying job with a better environment, better
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people, better food safety standards... yeah, yeah. The first time, I laughed
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this off. I couldn't afford to take time off work like that. Missing a
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paycheck? It would have killed us. Maybe I was right. Then, later, I shot the
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requests down - no, I don't want to move up. No, I don't want to find a new
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job. I don't have the energy for a job hunt and a full time job. Implying a
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part time job would do it for me. And I believed it would have. A nod. Dude,
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/you/ get a job. It was trying. And trying for high roles, the upper eschelons
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of employment - five, six figure salaries. It was qualified. It had one for a
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bit. It was living at its parents, got a good job, brought a partner over, got
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an apartment - that was the context for my coming here, being able to come
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here. Rich friends put me up in their living room. Except the contract wasn't
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renewed, my burger job kept us afloat but started to weigh me down enough to go
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under. It was working, off and on but mostly off, a shit burger job like mine,
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elsewhere, helping pay the bills while managing to find it in itself to spend
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something like six hours a day on LinkedIn and Indeed and god knows what else
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hunting for a way to better its position while watching me, a beginner-level
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cook, quite talented at my own job, doing nothing to better my status, sinking
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into a sorry mental state. Have you ever seen a friend die? Slowly, not fast
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from a gunshot wound but from a thousand papercuts - bad job, bad friends, bad
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drugs, bad account balance, bad overdraws, bad bad bad. I had the job and a
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fiend on my back that usually was the cause of all these things; bad mental
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health. And it was clutching me like a non-swimmer deathgrips a lifeguard. And
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it was watching me go under again and again, coming back up for air only to
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sink deep into a black sea - drowning. And it knew if it stopped swimming,
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stopped looking for a way to get us out of this situation, it would drown too.
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But I didn't think about any of this. At the moment it told me, again, that I
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should start looking for a new job, all I thought about was the fact that I was
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paying all its bills, had been paying all its bills, for a while. Something
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like eight or nine months but I probably said ten. And who was I to get the
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burden of paying for an expensive apartment, meant for two people making decent
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wages? A burger worker making one person's shit wage? Formerly homeless,
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bitterly so - still living out of a backpack in my roommate's living room, in
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an apartment I was paying for, while it got to sleep in the side room all to
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itself and its partner? We were living paycheck to paycheck and had been for a
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good while - my paycheck. None of which I got to see myself anymore.
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"Says the unemployed one?"
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My inkling of a plan, the little plan I had, was to wait until enough people
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here had jobs that I could go part time at [...]. Then, a proper job hunt. Take
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some time off, do some writing, get a high paying job, have income, dump
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savings into finding a bigger place for the [...] of us, meanwhile having the
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disposable income to go out, do stuff. This all hinged on someone else getting
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a job. I and one other had jobs, the roommate did not, the others weren't
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likely to be able to find jobs soon. So while I had a burden, I assigned in my
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own head a burden upon it that it didn't know about.
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And then it started saying god knows what while I lay on the futon reading an
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article on my phone and when I tuned back in it was talking about how it wasn't
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quite sunshine and roses to have someone occupying the living room 24/7. And I
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was blinded by my last paycheck having gone, as did all the past ones from my
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at the time current employer, to the apartment, and to food, and to bills. It
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was mad about me occupying the apartment I was paying for?
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"So, what, do you want me to move out?"
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Meanwhile, before I had arrived in [...], the living room was mostly its. It
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could go to its office, work, need a change of scenery, go to the living room,
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work. Luxury, maybe. But the common area was now de facto the Trinity area.
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Then [...] started saying something, and [...] piggybacked off that, and my
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brain started shorting as the broken neural pathways formed when yelled at by
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my parents fired and fucked with the rest of the system, and I kernel panicked
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and rolled over and started crying. Blah blah blah. Of course, there was a
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little more to it than that, but I had worked a nine hour shift that day and
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had to go in early the next day and really? The only thing I was focused on was
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work, despite being at home. Work and the idea of being able to not work so
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much.
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I think my job interview for [...], the first job I had in [...], happened
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2023-10-30. I might have had a shift or two, nominally an orientation (that I
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had given myself many times), before 2023-11-05. Then 2023-11-09 I started on a
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somewhat regular schedule. And then I worked (counting all the shifts marked on
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the calendar)...
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2023-11 6*5 + 7*2 + 8*8 + 9 + 11
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= 30 + 14 + 64 + 9 + 11
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= 128hrs
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2023-12 4 + 6*10 + 7 + 7.5 + 8*5 + 8.5 + 9 + 10*2 + 12
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= 4 + 60 + 7 + 7.5 + 40 + 8.5 + 9 + 20 + 12
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= 168hrs
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2024-01 4 + 5*3 + 6*9 + 7 + 8*6 + 9
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= 4 + 15 + 72 + 7 + 48 + 9
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= 155hrs
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2024-02 5*6 + 6*15 + 7 + 8*4 + 8.5 + 9
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= 30 + 90 + 7 + 32 + 8.5 + 9
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= 175.5hrs
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2024-03 5*5 + 6*5 + 7 + 8 + 8.5 + 9*6
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= 25 + 30 + 7 + 8 + 8.5 + 54
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= 112.5hrs
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2024-04 5*2 + 6*3 + 7*2 + 8*5 + 9*6 + 9.5
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= 10 + 18 + 14 + 40 + 54 + 9.5
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= 145.5hrs
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2024-05 6*5 + 7*4 + 8.5 + 9*10
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= 30 + 28 + 8.5 + 90
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= 156.5hrs
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2024-06 2*2 + 6*3 + 7*4 + 8.5*5 + 9*7
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= 4 + 18 + 28 + 42.5 + 63
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= 155.5hrs
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2024-07 2 + 5.5 + 6*4 + 7 + 8.5*4 + 9*9
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= 2 + 5.5 + 24 + 7 + 34 + 81
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= 153.5hrs
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total = 1350hrs
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This includes [...], a second job I worked in January and February to help pay
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the bills. Nine months. That number is very abstract to me, an alien concept.
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A single digit. But now listing the months, the hours. Ho boy. That wasn't
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sunshine and roses.
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I think it was right that I was a lousy roommate - a godawful one in fact. I
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got home from work exhausted every day, often went to sleep right out of work,
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was irritated and unfocused and very often high. I don't think I would have
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survived without this stupor though. And I don't think finding a better job
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would have worked, at least not until recently. But then my informed logic
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turned to a schizophrenic delusion and well after it was necessary I responded
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like a hurt animal to the suggestion that I get a new job. And, well, it turned
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out poorly.
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Another reason I was pissed is it kept talking about its apartment.
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When I got to [...] I didn't have a mailing address which complicated my
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getting a job. I used the address of this apartment but knew come tax season,
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one or two months away, I needed a valid address. The lease of this apartment
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said the only ones who could receive mail here were the ones on the lease, and
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I wasn't on it. Not only was my using a false address dangerous for me but, if
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the apartment landlords knew I was staying here, it could have potentially
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meant eviction for [...] and [...]. It was paramount that I find some way to
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receive mail legitimately.
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I went to the post office to try to get a P.O. Box but I needed existing proof
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of address - which they would verify. Fuck. [...] said it would ask its parents
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if I could use their address but didn't and I felt too self conscious to ask it
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to do so. I called multiple homeless resources looking for someone, anyone, who
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could just receive my mail and let me pick it up. Nothing. My last option was
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this homeless shelter way downtown in the city so after work I walked an hour
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and a half over. By the time I arrived night had fallen and two hobos outside
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were gathered around a barrel fire trying to keep themselves warm. A bad sign.
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The place looked like a prison, with barbed wire and giant iron gates keeping
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everyone inside. I buzzed in and waited in a room with armed guards discussing
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the worst crackheads they had seen that day, laughing about them. They started
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talking about this thing called Kratom which they called gas station heroin. I
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scrolled reviews while waiting to be called for intake and found multiple
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accounts of queer guests being abused there; trans people misgendered
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regularly, everyone called slurs. Whatever. I just had to pass and go through
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intake and maybe I would get an address. In intake it was clear I would have to
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boymode. Alright whatever. Then I asked if I could use the place as a mailing
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address. I would have to sleep there, probably once a week, in order to be able
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to use the facilities. Fucking useless. I was not sleeping there.
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[...] and [...] picked me up. "Why did you go in? This place looks like a
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prison. The reviews say they abuse queer folk. This was fucking dangerous."
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No shit.
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Later my at the time girlfriend heard about my going to the shelter and, I
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heard from someone else, was angry at me for taking a risk like that. I had
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taken a lot of risks by then, and a lot of them had come at once due to being
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homeless and, honestly, suicidal. It broke up with me because it didn't want to
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hear its girlfriend was found in some ditch somewhere. I understood.
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So eventually my roommate talked to its parents and I was able to use their
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mailing address. I got my W-2 and proof of address, then eventually a bank
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account and the other fixings of a real United States citizen. And I was not on
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the lease. It had had Its apartment for about four to six months at that point.
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After five months of paying for this apartment, or something like that, plans
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shifted and sputtered and realigned and it was decided:
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[...] would leave with [...] to go to [...] and get an apartment.
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I and [...] would be joined by [...], and continue to live here.
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[...] arrived. [...] arrived. For a short time, there were five. Then [...] and
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[...] left for [...]'s parents, as they decided five was too many for an
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apartment of this size. I started to move into the side room, now to be my
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room, formerly the office. I planned to get furniture, posters. The apartment
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would be [...]'s, [...]'s, mine, jointly. I would get on the lease and start
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using this apartment as my mailing address. I haven't received mail where I've
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lived since 2023-04, have never been on a lease. I was really excited.
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The plans fell through. For reasons that were very fair, [...]'s parents didn't
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work out. [...] and [...] came back and I let them take the office as they were
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two and I was one; it didn't make a damn bit of sense to make them take the
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living room. I moved my backpack, not yet unpacked, back to the living room. It
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was nice to have [...] and [...] around again - they're good friends of mine.
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I was kind of bummed to not have a room though. At least I would be on the
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lease.
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Plans shifted, sputtered, started. I would not be on the lease. It would be the
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four of them, the rest of them, as I already had an external mailing address.
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The five of us would live together until we found a house, at which point we
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would all be on the lease. And though we were five, though I had paid for the
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apartment longer than it had, the apartment was once again [...]'s, and I was
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once again in the living room.
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The way it saw it, I had made a great many choices to get here. I had
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volunteered to come to [...] to help my friends out with rent, stayed and
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continued to do so, was fine with [...] and [...] coming back and using the
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room I was gonna get, and was just the grouch in the living room. The way I saw
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it, I would come home from long shifts exhausted, agree to whatever I had to in
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order to get back to sleep, wait for the sun to come and go back to work. I had
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a lot of choices and did make them - but I don't know if I would agree that I
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was given time to think them over, or that they really were choices at all, to
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be honest. If I didn't come here I would have died in a Maine winter. Instead I
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suffered in a [...] winter, then in the spring, then in the summer, to try to
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make sure my friends - who are damn near my only friends - had a safe place to
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live. Then I got back from work and was irritated at [...] for all of this and
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telling me I should get a job I didn't hate now that I could and I decided if
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it didn't want the golden goose in the living room honking occasionally but
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paying its rent for Its Apartment, I would head out. But I didn't have anywhere
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out to head. Back to homelessness? To a cage, or to a cold street, or to a car
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in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere? That's why I resolved to kill
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myself and why I ended up going on an acid trip instead. And I don't really
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feel so bad about it all anymore.
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My parents weren't that great to me in ways that were way less great than any
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of my friends' parents. I left once I hit 18 with a bunch of boxes filled with
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random shit I grabbed from my, at that point, basically trashed room that had
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gotten five years' worth of messy from the five years' worth of depression I'd
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spend there at the tail end of eighteen years' worth of constantly being yelled
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at and severely grounded over minor faults (for example, a year and a half over
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holding a spoon wrong). In a lot of ways I have matured since then, in a lot of
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ways I am stunted in ways that alienate me from my peers - lack of
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socialization and being used to neglect and abuse are a potent combo. I know my
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upbringing and what I did to get out of it - I got a job, paid peanuts to rent
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a room at a friend's house, cut off contact with my parents entirely, barely
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scraped by and ate candy for supper most nights. I know the roommate with which
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I argued had, if anything, a harder time - every step of the way. Given the
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cards it had I probably would have folded. It's easy for a bird to change
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countries. But this fish made it out of a fishbowl. What the fuck does a fish
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||||||
|
do to get out of a bad fishbowl? It can't swim out of there. It has to jump.
|
||||||
|
There are a million things that could go wrong. Hit the floor, die. Hit the
|
||||||
|
wrong water (too salty or not salty enough), die. Hit water that's too hot or
|
||||||
|
too cold, go into shock, probably die. I've spent my life going everywhere I
|
||||||
|
damn well please, partially because I had the right connections and a streak of
|
||||||
|
being in the right place at the right time. What the fuck would I have done if
|
||||||
|
I didn't have that?
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
It got a good job, got a good apartment, made it to another fishbowl. If this
|
||||||
|
was my second fishbowl I would lay claim too. Its good job was shit for it, but
|
||||||
|
it got out of the fishbowl. It gave a lot to do so. For the longest time I was
|
||||||
|
pissed at [...] more than anyone else because we're in its home turf, near its
|
||||||
|
parents. Everyone else came from places around the country. It was the one, I
|
||||||
|
thought, that didn't ante up. I didn't really figure the price it already paid,
|
||||||
|
the rounds before I sat at the table.
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
My behavior was a result of overwork, overstress, lack of pay, preexisting
|
||||||
|
mental health conditions. Its behavior was a result of overwork, overstress,
|
||||||
|
lack of pay, preexisting mental health conditions, and me. I think that's where
|
||||||
|
the difference lies. That's why I'm not so bothered by it anymore. I've
|
||||||
|
apologized, it forgave me, I'm still a bit ashamed. Life goes on regardless. At
|
||||||
|
some point, still, I'm moving. I'm working on saving and getting my driver's
|
||||||
|
license. [...] and [...] think they would prefer to not live with me, at least
|
||||||
|
for a bit, which is how I took it, though they said something about
|
||||||
|
"considering the history" or whatever to leave it ambiguous. I've given my
|
||||||
|
phone number to a lot of people without getting a call back and I think I can
|
||||||
|
tell by now when I'm not gonna be getting a ring. At least I'll be able to know
|
||||||
|
somewhere in [...] the people I loved are living together and have a good shot
|
||||||
|
at good lives.
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
I'm not sure where I'm moving just yet. [...], or maybe this state. I gotta get
|
||||||
|
a license first. I've been procrastinating studying, but only because it's
|
||||||
|
really boring.
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
I hope I did a decent job of explaining the argument and the context around the
|
||||||
|
argument. [...] is still my friend and a close one. This isn't a grudge I bear.
|
||||||
|
A part of the intent of my writing this was to explain also the context around
|
||||||
|
my blah posts of the last ten months.
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
It's 0600 now.
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
/blah/2024-07-31.html
|
/blah/2024-07-31.html
|
||||||
|
|
||||||
: my acid trip
|
: my acid trip
|
||||||
|
Loading…
Reference in New Issue
Block a user