Got to come out fighting

Cover, Fight Stories Volume 2, #4 (Sept. 1929) Fiction House (defunct co.) pulp magazine; art by F. R. GlassJesus, today was fucking rough. It started with me falling back asleep after my alarm went off. I had a disgusting morning dream, about dogs shitting worm-infested feces all over a lawn and it getting all over a purse I really own. It would have been bad enough if it were a purse that I only had in the dream, but now every time I look at my wonderful brown Kangol purse I’m thinking of it covered in parasitic poop. Oh, and because I have an iBook G4 and Apple won’t let me upgrade my phone’s OS, I can’t get the stupid fix for the alarm problem, so I have to remember to make all my alarms a series instead of one-time things. So I way overslept in the land of excrement. Great. Fucking great. Even with all that extra time, I just couldn’t get it off my purse. So ill. So very ill.

Then I had to go to work, which just fucks with my life in general. I’m supposed to be a burnout when I grow up, like Shaggy and George Costanza and Roger Clinton. I’m not supposed to have a job proper. I’m just supposed get by, being a special spirit and wacky neighbor. The problem is, I’m not especially hardy, so I need to be financially independent. This is where the lotto figures in, since nobody’s giving me a talk show where I can wow the country with my quips. I really, really want to win that $330 million dollars. It’s $208 million in cash. I pay attention to these things. Fuck man, that would make up for a lot. I know the first thing I’d get. I’d buy cancer treatment for someone I know who doesn’t have insurance, the finest treatment money can buy. Then I’d get out of this hellhole.

Warning: I am about to talk about the thing. You remember the thing? Not the love that dare not speak its name. That shit is hot. It’s the porn I prefer, actually. What were we–oh yes. No, the thing I said I wouldn’t talk about. I’m all over that like a hookworm in a colon. Then I finally got the login information for one of my schools and found out they hadn’t gotten my recommendation letters from two of my people. Fuck me. Fuck a duck in a pickup truck. And uh, fuck her too. I was immediately too upset to be at work but not far enough in the day to leave. Someone called me and wanted to talk about her relationship woes for a long ass time. That got me out of myself for a little while. When we finally got to me, I started welling up. I felt stupid, like I was taking it too serious.

But I went to a place of having to reapply for 2012. That’s a new fucking president, people. Or maybe the same one, but an election is what I mean. That’s how long away that is. Which I may have to. I haven’t gotten a letter of receipt that one school’s English department says they send you. But the website from the campus says I’m complete. I’m so confused. And there’s no way to check one application at all. And I can’t log into one site without contacting the administrator, which I did.

My biggest fear was that my recommenders never got the materials at all and never sent them. In that case, it would be too late and it would all have to wait for next year. All that money, and time, and worry, and for not. I called someone to wail. She tried to talk me down, and she gave me a game plan, but she didn’t make me feel better about the whole thing. Really, she just gave me some more weapons to use against myself. “You’re just feeling like you can’t do anything right, and you’re a big fuck up, but you’re not.” Well, actually, that hadn’t occurred to me until you just said that, but let me count the ways. Thanks for reminding me. Let’s hear it for the backhanded compliments of the world! You’re not that fat. You’re not as cheap as people say! You’re smarter than I thought you were. Burnout for life.

I did get over the fear and took some action. One of my recommenders emailed me a response nearly instantaneously, telling me that he did indeed send the shit off, right after he got the shit, and that he could send the shit again. Perhaps he was insulted. But at least he’s on the ball. He got his shit in before I did, and that’s probably what the problem is. Shit shit shit.

I was just so ready for the head space on this to be from working on thesecompleted, worrying about responses. I didn’t expect to be wrangling the completion aspect of this shit still.

Oh, and then I come home, right? And my disability check is in the mail. Fucking finally. I have been on a severe money diet since November, when I was off work for 17 days. And I open it. And they forgot to put the money in it.

This is not the way 2011 is going to go. I’m just getting all the bad luck out today. Tomorrow is going to be so awesome and I’m going to be so rich.

Besides, these are all high quality problems. I don’t have intestinal parasites. I have a computer and a sissy little fucking fancy pants picky phone that has issues. I have roof over my head. I have the luxury of hating a job. I have the time and money to apply to school. And my disability was allowed. These are gold-plated problems. People all over the world would disembowel me to have my life. I’m just not happy with the way today went. This ain’t no way to be a man.

I’m not giving up, though, so don’t even think that. The fight is on! Mongoose-style, you fucks! Oh, not you; you’re my dunnies. But my enemies should quiver.

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