Part of being unemployed is looking for employment. And scouring the job sites for opportunities to live the dream is part of the deal. Keep the resume as up-to-date as possible, meaning touch nothing because nothing at all has happened since the last time you sent it out. Fucking whatever.


As logic and inevitability would have it, the lowest and most entry-level position I have applied for quickly responded. I was indeed able to pass the test of walking and chewing gum at the same time and make it to the second interview. Indeed I did go to the in-person interview, flipped on my game switch, and proved I was not mentally disabled. A few hours later and I received a phone call offering me the job…I accepted.


Could it be that my section of unemployed writing was coming to an end?


Wait. What? Something is wrong. I’m in trouble. I need help.


The emergency room. And do you know why I’m there? (see previous entry). Yes, a kidney stone


So lets just get this straight. I have been offered a sad little job after being out of work for almost a year. And within that same day, I am rushed to the emergency room to be pumped full of morpheme, fluids, and scanned to see the 5 mm devil destroying my insides. The bottom line is: This week I will be told when to start my job, I also have a calcified razor in my bladder. There’s nothing really left to say I think. Maybe that coming down off morpheme causes you to vomit, just barf, barf it like nobody is watching.

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