January 03, 2006
Here's To Something Better In 2006
Its beginnings were auspicious enough: with all our dependable party-throwers flung across the globe to various exotic locales (Slovakia. . . Mexico. . . India. . . Long Beach), Onion Slayer and I decided to throw a party ourselves. We rented a karaoke machine. It was grand.
I'm still recovering, two days later. It wasn't just that the party that wore me out; I'm also exhausted from the stress of being of being a hostess. I had to make plans from New York! For a party in San Francisco! I rented a freaking Karaoke machine! A Karaoke machine! In general, I don't love to host a party for the same reason I don't trust parties on boats: I like to know that if the party fails to amuse me I can dash outside and hail a cab. I like to know that I am able to bolt, should the need arise, and it is usually frowned upon when the hostess bolts from her own party, but, hey, it was New Year's! 2005 was kind of a really, really shitty fucking year for me, as far as these things go. I should have a New Year's party. 2006, please please please oh godless unfeeling universe, has to be something better.
Also, I'd like to share my revised opinoin on Karaoke machines. The best Karaoke experience, in my opinion, is had in those private Karaoke rooms with a group of friends all of whom are discriminiating in their musical tastes and knowledgable about which songs lend themselves to a Karaoke good time. The problem with the non-small-private-room machine, as I see it, is only one person or group can sing at a time; this makes it necessary for everyone else present to watch and listen to those Karaokeing. This is not equally enjoyable for everyone in the room. Karaoke is always more fun for the person singing, for that person cannot hear themselves. Everyone else, in addition to having to listen to some asshole sing, really is only there because they want to be singing themselves! The genius of private room Karaoke is everyone is screaming alond at once, so 1) no one ever has to wait their turn to sing; everyone is always singing all the time! 2) you never hear yourself or anyone else sing because you are always shouting so everyone seems to sound just terrific! you're a star! If only someone could invent a machine that would do the same thing with conversation! Every party would be a hit! No one would ever be bored!
Posted by hissycat at 05:49 PM | Comments (16)
December 18, 2005
Photoshop + CSS + JoJo = BFF's 4-Eva
Now all it needs is some content and its golden! What, you don't want to read a 100+ undergrad English thesis in its entirety? It'll be a gas, I swear it! Some fun you are.
Also, you know what really sucks big time? You know how sometimes you piss away two months in bed, chewing your hair and procrasturbating through an entirely thoughtless, reptilian existance, and then you're not depressed, and all of a sudden, there are a katrillion things you realize you want to do-- write a book! make stop-motion animation with k-biz! create a small replica of the Tower of London rendered in Shrinky-Dink!-- but now the world's all, oh, hey Joanna, you're feeling a little bit not morbidly depressed, are you? Well, fuck you, sister-- now you've got to change the cat's litter, and pay your psychaitrist's bills, and visit your angry parents, and get another awful job to go to and work and eat any time you might want for writing or reading novels or maki the cat fall off furniture or Shrinky-Dinking paperbacks until, once again, suicide seems a really, really attractive alternative? You know what I mean, don't you? That kind of really sucks, right, am I so right? You with me?
Oh dude, my freshman RCC (freshman Residential Computer Consulstant-- Counselor? Consultant? Counselor? Consultant?) just walked in and is sitting not enough feet away. This, too, makes suicide an attractive option. I totally just flipped up my collar like I'm a cartoon.
I have to go home now and put my cat in her new Pet Voyage carrier. I can't win. I might as well sling her around my hip while I wash dishes. She can practice being in her bag.
A funny moment is when someone gives you a breathalizer test and you blow a zero (it's also funny to type out "blow a zero"-- you try!) and the person who breathalized you is all, "this thing's broken"-- because, presumably, your behavior indicates obvious inebriation-- and you're all, "yeah, ha, ha, it must be broken," but secretly, in your brain, you're all, "right, no, you just can't breathilize for cocaine." That is a pretty funny secret thought. I would imagine.
Posted by hissycat at 07:50 PM | Comments (2)
November 25, 2005
A Well-Spent Thanksgiving
Zuzka came by with coffee yesterday morning around 9:30 to wake me and take me back to her apartment for turkey-making, which, given the hellish night I'd just had (two Xanax and still no sleep), I was very grateful for.
I was a little Bree Van De Campy yesterday, but I had to keep busy-- keep chopping, keep mashing, keep basting, keep checking-- in order to keep my head above water. I took another Xanax and let Desperate Housewives play in the background while I scurried around the kitchen. When Alex woke up, around noon, drinking began. It went on until 4am, when Alex, Zuzka, and I finally went to bed.
It was a successful Thanksgiving, I think. The turkey turned out well, we ate like pigs, and Meg brought over two delicious homemade pies and Tess-- the only person I know who has Cuisinart-type appliances in her kitchen-- provided the whipped cream. We ate and drank ourselves into diabetic comas and passed out in front of more Desperate Housewives. Once, I had to excuse myself to go into the pantry by myself and feel sad for a while, but later I drank more and Zuzka and Alex started making me laugh, and I had a very fun night.
I don't feel competatent right now. I'll try to write something better later.
Posted by hissycat at 07:22 PM | Comments (8)
November 24, 2005
Carniverous
All that Xanax-- I mean, tryptophan-- sure has made me sleepy. My fingers don't want to type. Here are some photos instead.
Yeah, I cooked that turkey. Most successful thing I've done in months.
Posted by hissycat at 10:29 PM | Comments (10)
October 26, 2005
How To Be A Pyschotic Ex
with apologies to Lorrie Moore
First, get dumped. This step is essential. If you can manage to get fired the following day, score!
Getting fired will provide you with the unoccupied daytime hours you will need to destroy property, not to mention the aimless daytime hours to sleep through, which you will come to appreciate more and more with every passing weekday night on which you decide to get plastered and do something stupid.
Remain friends with your ex, even if it breaks your heart. Especially if it breaks your heart. Be so adamant about friendship that when he forgets to return a phone call on an evening he said he "might be up for hanging out," freak the fuck out like you've never freaked out before. Don't be put off by the fact that, when you were his girlfriend, you did not whip yourself up like a banshee on account of one little missed call. You now have permission to blow meaning out of all proportion. Of course this means he was lying when he said he wanted to remain friends! Of course this means he hates you! Of course this means you are unloveable and he is trying to destroy your life! Don't hold back when making assumptions. Think Medea. Remember, the more extravagant your assumptions are the farther along you are on your way to becoming a psychotic ex.
Swear you will not call but will maintain the silent dignity of a martyr. Then, fuck martyrdom. Fuck not calling. You have no dignity! You are the psychotic ex!
Harass and accuse. He won't actually pick up, as he'll be busy, or his phone will be out of battery, or he will be sleeping, but, in a way, this is even better than if he did, as it enables you to leave strings of messages of increasing hysteria. Don't be discouraged if harassment and accusation were not your style before. You are a psychotic ex, and they are now, so shriek like the harpy you are.
The next day, tear up with self-pity and self-loathing as you read the email he wrote from work that morning, after he finally got all your emails and messages. Nobly decline the offer to get dinner tonight and go to the concert with his and your friends. Five minutes later, give in.
Behave admirably, if unattractively, throughout dinner. It will be easy. You will be depressed and deflated anyway. Then, smoke drugs, and, at the concert, drink until you can't not dance, shameless as Sheela Na Gig. Just be sure to point your eyes away from couples. Do not see people dancing close, do not see people kissing.
Oh, while at the concert, see some dumb celebrity. In your state of drunken moroninity, decide what you must do is blog this, which, since you do not have internet in your apartment, requires you to go home with ex. This is acceptable, as his roommates are your friends, and they stay up, too, so, really, you are hanging out with them while he just happens, through no fault of yours, to be sleeping in his room down the hall.
However, you will stay up long after your friends have turned in (you've had insomnia all week). Around four in the morning become genuinely, suddenly exhausted. Just worn out. Done in. Outside it is dark and undoubtedly even colder than inside, though that hardly seems possible.
Gently pry open the door to his room, where he is sleeping and naked. Whisper his name till he wakes, startled. Yes, this is creepy, but, on the other hand, you are psychotic. When he asks what's wrong, look down and say something about the cold outside and the exhaustion that's taken hold and meekly ask if you can crash here, in this apartment. When he asks where you would stay, blurt out in one unpunctuated rush that could you please, please sleep in the bed, you promise you will keep all your clothes on and sleep head-to-toe and you are sorry and you are awful but it is so cold and you are so tired, and please? Of course he lets you. He is nice and decent and kind like that, even though you have behaved abominably. And even though he would not mind if you made use of the pillow he is not using and even though he would not mind if you took off your belt or unlatched your bra, keep everything on and hunch, pillowless and upside down, at the far edge, just to be extra pathetic.
You wake up, rattled by dreams, long after everyone else has left for work. Make some coffee. Step out to smoke. Use the internet. Nod off in an arm chair. Wake up. Make more coffee. Grab roommate's copy of Allure and step out the kitchen door onto the back stairwell to smoke.
Pull the door all the way shut because you are being extra-courteous and will not allow even a hint of your smoke to waft in. Immedeately realize your mistake, but smoke, page through the Allure as it becomes increasingly impossible to stifle the panic.
You are locked out, without your shoes, without your phone, without even a book or another goddamned cigarette, and it will be hours before anyone is home, and all you have is that Allure, which is not all that good, even as Allures go.
Consider your options. There is a kitchen window you consider shimmying through, but quickly realize that not only is the window about four feet from the edge of the staircase and two stories high but also is the kind of window that does not open, like a square porthole on the side of the buidling, which suddenly strikes you as especially stupid.
Remember the way in middle school, when you forgot your apartment key, you would get a neighbor to buzz you in, decline their offer to watch TV in their apartment until your parents returned, assuring them that your mother was already home and probably just in the shower and would no doubt hear you now and let you in. Remember how you'd use your plastic library card to jimmy the lock; you'd shoulder your weight against the door and it would give and you were in.
You don't have a plastic library card now or anything like one. What you do have is panic, psychosis and, you notice, a pile of wood chips. Wood chips. Damn you're psychotic. You try slipping wood chips between the door and the frame, as though they were plastic library cards, which they are not.
Now, press on the door. Press harder. Slam your weight into it. Something heaves, cracks and sighs. You see that you've torn part of door frame off of the wall. Consider stopping. Consider your stupidity. Consider how truly, awfully boring that copy of Allure is and throw yourself against it again. Again. Until, on the fourth or fifth try, the door suddenly gives in, at last becoming as unhinged as you are. You stagger back to survey the damage.
Ah, behold! The work of the psychotic ex-girlfriend!
Posted by hissycat at 11:03 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 21, 2005
I Spy A Hobbitt
Like, oh my god, girlfriends, you will totally flip out when I tell you who I saw tonight. Oh. Ma. Gahd. Sit down. No, really sit down. Can you guess? I'll give you three hints:
Elijah Wood! Elijah Wood! Elijah Wood!
I saw Elijah Wood! Like, ahhhhh!
Actually, I really did see Elijah Wood. I went to the Gogol Bordello concert tonight with Caroline, Zuzka, Tess, and Brett (yes, that Brett-- the one I just broke up with).
Brett, Zuzka and I stepped outside at some point towards the end of the lame-ass opener to have a smoke. Zuzka returned in search of a vodka shot, while Brett and I remained for cig #2. About three drags in, he walked by. I looked at Brett for confirmation. Stoned and drunk (did I mention who I was there with?), I couldn't be sure if I was halucinating or what.
"Yes," Brett said, before I could get a word out of my mouth.
"Is--?"
"Yes."
I looked over Elijah Wood, who was leaning against a lamp post, having a smoke, then looked back at Brett. "I just need to be sure," I said, "that you you see--"
"A hobbitt," said Brett. "I see a hobbitt."
We spread the news to our co-horts back inside. Gogol was taking for freaking ever to get on stage. After about forty minutes of waiting, I turned to Brett. "Elijah Wood must be taking a crap or something," I said by way of explanation. But, no. Tess (or someone) spotted him about ten yards behind us. His full denim ensemble was topped by a large yellow cowboy hat, naturally, as no doubt he chose the LARGE YELLOW HAT to avoid calling attention to himself.
Well kids, and here's the shocker. I mean, I know the kid's totally flamingly gay gay gay, but, man oh man, he sure does dance funny.
Oh right, and the concert was totally great.
Posted by hissycat at 01:24 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 10, 2005
The Sober Writer: A Sign Of The Times; and, An Appeal To Dave Eggers
Upon arriving at work this morning I was delighted to find in my inbox an email from my dear friend Ameeth directing me to this NYTimes article about the growing trend of members-only writing centers in New York. These exclusive cozies, apparently, are popping up faster than pustules on the member of Paris Hilton's latest conquest. Accompanying the link was a message:
Pathetic. I hate new york. stab stab stab stab
Though I love that city of mine with all my filthy heart, I admit to on more than one occaision been known to sputter with far less eloquence than he sentiments of a similair nature. I appreciate as much as the next New Yorker the chance to rag on the "cool people" and "writers" and other boroughlings whose lives and successes I wish I had. (For the record, I am allowed to say offensive things about New York, for I am of New York, much like Woody Allen may say offensive things about the Jews, for he is of the Jews. If Ameeth had not lived in Brooklyn the past two years, earning his right to resent and detest every white boy with bed-raggled hair in Williamsburg, I would have not taken his comments in such good stride. Lest you think his Brooklyn years were not enough, rest assured he also attended Brown, which, in certain crucial ways, bears a more than passing resemblance to Brooklyn.)
My reaction to the article was twofold. As I'm always keen on a chance to vituperate any writer more successful than I (in this regard, my utter lack of success is truly a blessing, as I have a virtually infinite number of targets onto whom whom to direct my groundless ire), you can imagine how I must have snorted with gleeful scorn to read statements such as this:
"The concept of writers as drunken Hemingwayesque malcontents traveling the globe is over," Ms. Cecil said. "They see it as a job now, and they see themselves not as inspired alcoholics, or depressive psychopaths alone in a tenement. It's more mainstream. It's good kids going to M.F.A. programs, then looking for a place to find the kind of writerly community they had in grad school."
Fucking rat shit good kids! Fucking bitchy bitch fuck fart M.F.A. programs! Jesus fucking mainstream! Ugly fucking whore cock grad school! Somewhere, I know, Fran Lebowitz is rolling around atop her unmade pull-out couch, horrified to read that the belles lettres have sunk so low as to fall to the hands of the sober. If these sober, ambitious, M.F.A.-weilding goody goodies are the writers of the future, than I am frightened for what the future holds. If writers can't be lovable alcholoic malcontents, I ask you, who can? Or, to put it another way-- and this is where it really hurts-- if depressive, alcoholic, deranged psychopaths who live alone in filthy tenement apartments, who have only a cat and a bottle of gin for love, can't be writers, what can I be? People, I am running out of options. An unreliable malcontent just can't catch a break these days.
Oh, and I almost threw up when the doyenne of Paragraph compared her quill club to a gym:
Ms. Parisi compares writers' rooms to gyms. In both, a large group of people share the same equipment. And, paying for membership helps writers take their commitment to writing seriously, she said, and gets them "off of the couch" and onto the literary StairMaster. . . And like exercise buffs, the writers who use these spaces need to be self-motivated and disciplined.
Egads-- "literary" and "StairMaster" are two words that do not belong together! Oh, somebody say a prayer to Jean Rhys, beg pardon from Oscar Wilde! Dorothy Parker weeps angel's tears at the thought that "writers" have become like "excercise buffs." With things such as they are one can hardly summon up the appropriate degree of horror at the lack of sexual goings-ons amongst members. It is a grim truth that when alcoholism leaves, it takes sexual debauchery with it.
And yet-- and yet-- And yet there is the other fold of my twofold reaction, which is this: I want to be let in the club. One writer quoted describes the communality of working in one these spaces as "parallel play, like toddlers in a sandbox." How delightful, I say, how appealing! That is perfect for me! I loathe human interaction and frighten myself! I need a place to go that is full of people who don't expect me to speak or smile back! "When you write at home, there's a lot of distraction. . . You want to go clean out the fridge, or tweeze your eyebrows," or, if you are me, pick your toes, "but when you go to a space to write, that's what you do." All that unholy Swedish furniture and track lighting would not only increase my productivity but impart a clean, modern birghtness and simplicity to every aspect of my life, I am sure of it.
So please, Dave Eggers, if you are listening, when you or yours decide open up one of these writers' clubs in SF-- and I know you will, because that's just the sort of thing you would do-- please, please let me in. I am sure you could find room for one alcoholic malcontent. I can be the club's kitschy, fashionably-obslete mascot. I'll sit at the door in my fashoinably-obsolete get-up of sweat-stained t-shirts, jeans I picked up off the floor, and underwear that should have been changed two days ago, I'll sit there with my fashionably-obsolete accessoriess: a copy of Ulysses and a bottle gin and let my forehead crash noisily onto a typewriter. Everyone will look up with an expression of ironic bemusement. I will be the source of much amusement! You clever young upstarts can laugh and laugh as I barf through the tears and I will oblige and drink all the more. I will blink back at you with my reddened psychotic eyes and I will not know whether your hearty laughs are ironic or sincere. And you will love me.
Posted by hissycat at 07:56 PM | Comments (94) | TrackBack
August 26, 2005
It's 2 a.m. Do I know where I am? Yes, I Do Unfortunately.
It's 2am. I am not sleeping and I am not happy. This time,I'm not happy not in a depressive, listless way but in a why the fuckdo I do this to myself? kind of way. Yes, I'm propped up andbuzzing on Ritalin and Excedrin, desperately trying to complete alanguage arts course for third-graders because I've spent all my timeat the office this week fucking around on the Internet instead of doingmy work. Oh, and gaining .6 lbs, apparently.
Yes kids, today was a Weight Watchers Thursday. I knew this hadbeen a bad eating week. I've just gotten really slack about it,not measuring portions, underestimating my Points values, snacking toomuch, descending upon the free samples at Andronico's like an elderlyJew at a half-price buffet. Every time I go in there to get asalad, I end up hovering all sneaky-eyed over the platters of cheesecubes and coffee cake cubes and cubed pumpkin bread and miniatureslices of baguette laid out next to olive oil dips and fruitspreads. Oh man, a few days ago they had open jars of thisamazing bittersweet chocolate fudgey goop and spreadable caramel, and Ijust stood there, my basket resting on the ground beside me, makingmyself at home, spreading and mixing and eating. Then I felt kindof ashamed, as I had no intention of actually purchasing the stuff, soafter I picked up my basket, I just stood at the display, picking upjars and pointing my eyes at the prices so it would look like I wasreally thinking this one over, like I needed another sample to help meconsider, just in case the flavor had, you know, changed in the lastthirty seconds. You know what would be great? If I just gotbanned from that place. I always end up spending too much moneythere anyway on yuppie foodstuffs I can't afford.
Andronico's indiscretions aside, though, I didn't actually go over mypoints by that much. I didn't even use all of my flex points, infact. I feel cheated. I feel entitled to my thirty-fiveweekly flex points, even though I know from experience that I do notloose if I use more than half of them. I was hoping for amiracle. Or, as my meeting leader, would say, "Dreaming theImpossible Dream."
Yes, this was Persistence week, and so we were treated to a veryspecial "Man of La Mancha" revue. To, you know, inspire us? Man, I've been through the twelve-week Tools for Living (also known asthemes) cycle way too many times (I bet I can name them all:Persistence, Anchoring, Visualizing Success, Positive Self-Talking,Reframing, Planning Ahead. . . oh fuck it, it's like trying to name allseven of the dwarfs). On the sunnier side of things though, I raninto a former house mate (who shall remain nameless-- some people, itseems, don't care to be Weight Watcher's outed, though I can't imaginewhy) at my meeting today. This is the first time this hashappened to me in the two years (off and on) I've been going. Notjust the first time I've run into a familiar face, mind you, but thefirst time I've run into any face aged less than forty years.
You know what? I really need to get back to work. This shitis due at noon, and these third-graders are going to be getting somepretty zaney, tripped-out stories, hear?
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Posted by hissycat at 02:34 AM | Comments (21) | TrackBack
August 11, 2005
Bad Me
Oh no. Bad me. I missed my shrink appointment. Bad way to start a Thursday.
And you know, I was really trying to be responsible. Like, Icalled Dr. R from the car to say I sort of remembered making anappointment for today, but I sort of don't remember what time I made itfor, so could you please sort of call me back and let me know.
I don't know how I missed her call, but when I got to the office, circa9:20, I noticed a new voicemail on my phone, so I called it, and it wasDr. R reminding me that I had an appointment for 9:00 am. Ichecked the phone and she had called at 8:50, making this totally my(or my phone's, unless I consider the phone an extension of myself, butI do) fault. Shit.
I really needed this appointment, too. I mean, more thanusual. Dr. R is going on vacation next week, I'm running short onmy meds, and then there is the distressing incident to which I alludedyesterday. Plus, when I miss an appointment, she charges me thefull cost of the appointment as opposed to just the $10 co-pay, and Ireally cannot afford to be throwing away two hundred dollars justnow. Oh, and I haven't heard any update on the status of myemployee benefits (read: HEALTH INSURANCE) so who knows if I'll even beable to afford to reschedule when she gets back.
And now it's time for me to zip over to my lunch-hour Weight Watchersmeeting. Fun! (Actually, I'm such a sicko that part of mereally enjoys it).
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Posted by hissycat at 12:22 PM | Comments (24) | TrackBack
August 03, 2005
It's Just Another Hypomanic Monday (Oh-Oh-Woah)
I'm doing some serious fantasizing about making radio stories for ThisAmerican Life. I have a couple of ideas for stories I'd like to do. I've been looking at recording equipment on Transom.org and trying to figure out what I need, but I'm having a hard time making sense of everything. All I need is something basic thatworks. Of course, I will probably need to buy a computer first, as the space bar on my laptop has been broken since spilling vodka on it last week; I mean, that's not the only reason I need a new one-- my laptop is also just old and slow and generally busted; I tried to buy a new computer this weekend. Brett and I went to the Apple store downtown and to CompUSA; I even filled out the application at Apple to purchase a laptop on a lay-a-way plan, but of course, I was rejected, because I have no credit history. It really sucks. It's amazingly hard to get a credit card without a history, but of course you don't have a history until you open a line of credit. You also can't do online BillPay, can't get a cellphone contract without leaving a deposit and so on. For the lastmonth I've been applying for credit cards and getting rejected. I know perfectly well that it's totally stupid-- I have a job; I pay my rent-- and that the only reason is that I have no credit score. Still, I feel like such a loser every time I get rejected. Like,it's this judgement on me, that I'm not resposible enough and not a good grown-up.
I also had a particularly frustrating encounter with my credit union; I applied (in person, explaining to the teller that I just wanted the simplist, most basic, beginner credit card) and was told I would hear back by the end of the day. Of course, it took a week and I had to call the credit man at the bank and leave messages on his machine. Finally, I got a phone call telling me that I had been rejected for the $10,000 platinum card. What? I thought, well, duh, you'd have to be a moron to give me a credit card with a $10,000 line of credit. You know, I'd have to be a moron to apply for a platinum card and think I could get one. But of course, I didn't. I suppose the teller punched in my request wrong. Whatever. Anyway, I was told that Visa made a counter-offfer for a Classic card with a $500 limit. Perfect. All I had to do, the guy told me, was fax him a copy of my paystub. I asked if I could email it instead and he said fine. I emailed him a copy ofmy paystub. Then I get an email back from him saying that I can't send an electronic version, it needs to be the receipt kind that gets mailed to me. I write back to inform him that I don't get a paper copy, I'm on the University Payroll and do direct deposit at theuniversity credit union. I get an email back that is five words long:
"everyone gets a paper stub."
Not only is this not true in my case, it is not true in the case of what I imagine to be a very large percentage of members of the credit union, since anyone who is on payroll and direct deposit at the University associated with the credit union is in the same situation as me: no paper stub. In fact, I looked this up and there's a big notice as soon as you get to the payroll website explaining that they no longer mail paper stubs. So I write back and calmly explain why I don't get a paper stub (by the way, if I'm on direct deposits houldn't they already have some kind of record of my earnings? is it really necessary for me to make a record of what they obviously must already have on file?) I don't hear back for maybe two weeks. Then I get a letter in the mail-- a letter informing me that I'd been denied that $10,000 platinum card I'd applied for.
So yesterday I finally got it together to go talk to someone at thecredit union. This time, I went to a different branch and had no problems. I got a call the same afternoon saying I'd been accepted and just needed to send proof of income. I told thewoman about the paper paystub issue and she said not to worry, theelectronic copy is totally fine. So now I'll have a credit card in about a week.
I've been feeling kind of funny lately. I'm going to say this is partly my own fault for letting my meds run out last week and not getting a refill of my prescriptions till Monday. But I also just feel funny. You know, I've been out of school a few months,working at my job, I feel like I should be falling into apattern. But all I think about is other things I could/ should/wish I would be doing. Like going to librarian school. Like applying to This American Life's internship program and going to Chicago for four months. Like writing in a serious way--especially, finishing the two short stories I have laying around and sending them off and transforming my thesis into a kicky article on lesbian pulps that I can pitch to some kicky magazine.
I know in theory this is a good job and I should be grateful I found it, but I want to be doing something else. I want to be putting more of my time into creative and intellectual work again. I'd like to look for something else, but it's so hard and takes so much time and energy that I can't imagine working and job-hunting at the same time. I'd probably have to quit my job to do a serious hunt, and I can't afford to do that. On the other hand, if I don't start getting benefits soon, I can't afford not to do that. My salary isn't something I'd sneeze at, but with no health insurance, it isn't worth it. I require three expensive prescription psychopharmeceuticals as well birth control and at least semi-regular therapy and med-checks with my psychaitrist. My goodness, I require extensive upkeep. In any case, at the very least I need my Rx drugs covered. I mean, I could easily be spending half my salary just to pay for my drugs. That's just not liveable. In that case, I think it would make more sense to quit and be a full-time job hunter and find a position with benefits as soon as possible.
Man, I hate that healthcare is so expensive. There are a ton of jobs I'd rather be doing but can't because I need health insurance. Like, I'd rather just have some dinky little job inthe city to make bucks and then have more energy to put into writing, but since there are no bartending/ table-waiting/ shirt-folding jobsthat have health insurance, it's just totally out of the picture. Same reason why I can't just tutor, even though I'd probably be making more dollars. It's just impossible for me to buy my own insurance, and even if I could, no insurance company in CA is going to cover my pre-existing conditions (depression, anxiety, ADD), which are of course the reasons I need coverage in the first place. I hope I get insurance soon at this job, although no one has really told me what is going on. I've been to scared to ask my boss and I don'tget the impression that anyone else has any idea. I wish this place were organized more like a normal kind of company.
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Posted by hissycat at 03:42 PM | Comments (26) | TrackBack