I'm spending my days either working two part-time jobs or passing the time entertaining myself on as little money as possible, putting away as much as I can for that rainy day, though as far as I can tell, it hasn't stopped storming yet.
Juggling two jobs makes having a life outside of work difficult, and I've made my fair share of sacrifices. Everybody has to make a choice each and every day of their lives, work or family? I've consistently chosen work, trying to invest as much as I can in my future, so that when I finally get there, I can afford to have a family.
All that, and for what? I'm trapped in these two jobs, one is seasonal and one is limited to fourteen hours a week. They both test my patience, and every day I ask myself if it's worth it. The fourteen hour-a-week job is threaten to fire me for generally being unlucky, but they should have figured that out already from my resume. How many people do you know who have been laid off three times?
And yet, here I am, still trudging onward. Trudging is exactly the word. I know I'm dragging my heels.
I don't like change. I know some people cherish it, but I just want a full time job, a place of my own, and a set schedule. Apparently, that's too much to ask.
I've been jumping at chances to move on, and they keep coming back and slapping me in the face. I took a chance last fall, applied for and got a job as a greeter at a local Verizon Wireless starting the weekend after Thanksgiving. It was supposed to be forty hours-a-week, but they give me three days and then never contact me again. Two weeks later, I find out they took advantage of the "at will" employment laws of Illinois, which says that they don't even have to tell me I'm fired. Reason: overachieving.
Before that, it was a three month stint at the local Waldenbooks. Not my fault, the store just closed as Borders tried to salvage itself before this spring's bankruptcy filing. It clearly didn't work.
Totes-Isotoner. Twenty-two months. Only store in Chicagoland, and they lost a huge sales base when they closed it down. Lots of unhappy customers. Now a-days, you have to drive to the Wisconsin border or halfway to Springfield, or shop online (and their website is crap).
Book Warehouse. Thirteen months. Book reseller going under due to bad corporate management.
Courteous Canine. Three years. Dog kennel. The only job I've ever quit, and that was to go to work at Book Warehouse.
All those past jobs have gotten me what? Three years of paid community college education and a fucked up resume. The economy is still on the poor side, so people who aren't supersticious won't take their chances with a bad-luck charm.
So why don't I go back to school?
I'm trying, but I don't get on well with classrooms. Regardless, I'm more of a "jack of all trades, master at none" kind of fella, so any marketable skill that an employer might be looking for, I'll be passable at while competing with masters. What do I want to major in? Communication, and not Mass- or Journalism either. That's about as useful as a Bachelor's of Philosophy.
What can I do with myself?
I can hardly stay where I'm at. The stuff I'm writing is only of an appreciable quality if it's published posthumously, and I'm clearly still here. I have a terrible resume, so I'm not apt to get a decent job any time soon, and I'm not good enough at anything worthwhile to choose it as a major. I've also sacrificed any possible social life I might have built when working, so my friends are few and far between. What's left?
I do have one thing: time. Loads of time. Even after keeping up with my more-popular-when-I'm-dead poetry, I still have enough time for one more thing: planning how I want to go out.
Why should I keep looking into the future? By the time I get there, I'll have nothing left to enjoy it with, so I might as well end it early. Sure, I'll hold it off until I've finished most of the stories I've started, but that's the biggest thing holding me back.
If you could choose how you'd go, how would it happen? And don't give me any of that bullshit about pulling a Hugh Hefner and wanting to die in bed at the age of eighty from a heart attack brought on by trying to get an erection. Dying in my sleep? I can't wait that long, and I hope the last thing I see is something other than the inside of my eyelids before jumping off this plane and into the primordial ether.
Though, there is some appeal to going while dreaming, living in the world of my sub-conscious, when my tie to the mortal realm gets severed. Nonetheless, no thanks.
Give me a eastward mountainside cliff, sunrise, and a catalyst. Nothing painful, nothing drawn out, just quick and over with. Let me see the sun peeking over the horizon and take me away before the light burns a hole in my retinas, forcing me to squint and turn away. I don't need anything with me, because I know the most important people will be waiting for me on the other side.
I can take the feather. I've done enough good. I do enough, reaching out to try to help people every single time I put my pen to the page or fingertips to the keys. It's not about trying to win my way into heaven, for which I don't believe in, just trying to do enough.
I'm not perfect enough to do more than enough, but I hope that all that I do comes out to enough, and I can see her smiling at me as I pass by the scales, and Horus goes hungry for another day.