My cousin died last week. I tried to look at him in the casket, but I freaked out. Or chickened out, I’m not sure which. He was only 30. I put my wall up so as to not cry. All I remember from my brief look was that they painted him far too pale. And contoured his nose pointy like. Now he’s in the ground in Oklahoma. Red dirt and everything.

But also, I gave being employed a shot. Yes, I went and took a physical test at the National Archives. The misleading part was that it was all warehouse work. It was all lifting and moving boxes from great heights. It was like a twisted cross-fit work out. And lets not forget the point where I fell off the ladder. Yes, fell off it right in front of the guy testing me. And the thing is…I just knew I would fucking fall. Inevitable.

I only made it through the three rounds before the next step involved climbing to the seventh shelf and fucking around with some files up there. I’d already fallen once…this job, not worth it…a fall from that height, not worth it.

Bottom line, I’m still very much unemployed and apparently catnip to warehouses. I may be extremely sore today but I’ve learned a lesson—be patient, and don’t do anything that involves climbing ladders.

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