Friday, July 9, 2010

In which our hero finds himself trapped in a strange land with no money, no car, and worst of all, no cigarettes.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
- Hunter S. Thompson
Things have gotten plenty weird. Think about this: when a man who identifies with Spider Jerusalem--someone who wouldn't blink at the prospect of crop circles appearing in cement--says things have gotten weird, you head for the god damned bunker.

I quit smoking roughly one month ago. Not out of any desire to improve my health or increase my lung capacity but because I simply couldn't afford it any more. The last $150 I had to my name, earned by selling my driven-into-the-ground car for scrap, had to go towards such vile necessities like buying food and paying rent.

Not that even I can afford to pay my rent in full. I applied for a dishwashing gig to the closest place within walking distance but apparently I can't even land that job. With no car, I can't get off the property any farther than that; even the local Turkey Hill is too long a walk. And without a job, I can't afford to buy even a used car (I should have called myself Yossarian). Luckily my landlord has been appreciative of all the yard work I've been doing around the property so he hasn't kicked me out just yet.

In the meantime I look for work online, trying the usual suspects like Craigslist and sifting through the scams and thinly-veiled prostitution advertisements for anything I can do from the third-floor attic room that I now call home. And I'm not even 100% Jewish.

So what do I do, ultimately? Well, what any other white, middle class, unemployed English major in search of the American Dream would do: I start another god damned blog. A single drop of chlorine in an ocean of piss, it's not nearly enough to make a difference to anyone or anything except maybe my peace of mind. "This will help me sleep better while I wait for my Welfare benefits to kick in," I tell myself as I dream of scouring the property for Jimson Weed to grind into a fine powder and inhale through a vuvuzela while I watch the World Cup.

My attorney once did advise me to drink heavily. I hope he's not about to ask for his retainer any time soon.

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