I wanted to write about Field Day, and how I was completely fucking blown away by Radiohead, how it was one of the best concerts I ever went to (Radiohead's set, not Field Day, which was a sopping mess--actually, the bands were good, but we were soaked, stiff, and exhausted). Instead, I'm going to write about losing an apartment, and how my life has no direction or meaning.
When your world seems to be coming together, when everything is coming your way, when the sky is blue and sunny, THAT'S when you get hit by the fucking truck.
When I wrote on Thursday about the apartment, I didn't expect for it to be gone on Friday--if it was that close to going, why the hell did they tell me to call on Monday about the place?
I'm poor. Not dirt poor, not welfare poor, not food stamps poor, not living-in-my-car poor. But I make less than $25,000 a year, which means I can barely afford to live anywhere, even with roommates. I live paycheck to paycheck. I don't take vacations. I'm a clerk in a library--a job which doesn't actually require any skills, but you still have to have a college degree to work here, mainly for appearance's sake. I don't know what I want to do with my life other than write, which you can't support yourself on (let's face it, kids), and which most people can't ever break into (let's fucking face it, kids). So here I am with a useless desire and no real ambition towards something practical. I'm not stupid, just too immature to suck it up and play along. I have no useful skills--and yes, maybe I should have studied computers or become a teacher, or some other useful, mindnumbing thing that I know I would hate. But I hate what I'm doing now, so what's the fucking difference?
So I make no money because I was stupid in college. "Oh, but at least you HAVE a job, unlike the two million people who got laid off the last two years." Yeah, true. Fine. So I can't fucking feel sorry for myself. Keep reminding me how good my life is, how I take everything for granted. I keep forgetting I'm not allowed to be unhappy.
And now, I don't have the apartment. Someone has already rented it. What you have to understand is that it's hard to find an apartment in this city, and it's even harder to find one I can afford. Almost impossible. Even the studios go for $700/mo. Half my take-home salary for the whole month. Yeah, I know--"Well, in San Francisco..." "Well, in New York..." "Well, in London..." Yes, I know. Everyone in the fucking world has it harder than me. Yes, I know. So what if I have to move back in with my parents? So what if I'm 24 and still treated like I'm 16? So what if I'm a loser with no future and no direction? My little sister is doing post-graduate work in vet school. She's going somewhere. I'm barely getting by, and soon I won't be getting by. Because they're talking about layoffs. Yes, that's right, if Temple University has its way, the Acquisitions Department will all be outsourced, and I will be left without a job. Oh goodie. So I'll be living in my parents' basement, unemployed, with a bunch of debt over my head.
We're rotten fruit
We're damaged goods
What the hell we've got nothing more to lose
One gust and we will probably crumble
This far but no further
I'm hanging off a branch
I'm teetering on a brink
Honey sweet so full of sleep
When I was 20, they diagnosed me as manic depressive. I don't really believe it. I think I'm just depressive with occasional bright spots. Fuck the medication--it never did me no good. I ain't dead yet, I just wish I was.
Go ahead. Fucking downvote this. Daylogs are just people's lives, that's all. Downvote my fucking life.