Beating a dead horse

I’m still reeling from losing my job.

I knew it was coming — you always know when the axe is swinging — but somehow, I thought I had more time.

There’s a phone interview next week. It’ll be fine. It always is.

Thanks, Dad.

But right now, I have no fucking idea what to do.

I’m not new to being unemployed. I’ve been here before — the quiet panic, the forced optimism, the “maybe this is a sign” crap that people tell you to make it sound like the universe gives a damn.

It’s not a new story. Just a new chapter in the same bizarre book.

At least there’s the hearing next week. I’ll have time  to focus on that.

Go land crabs.

I’m smoking a lot of weed — better for you than some other smokable goods, I guarantee.

And if you can hear an old male Cajun cartoon saying that in your head, congratulations — you’re as high as I am.

How does one suddenly become a fucking unemployed, lunatic, justice warrior princess at forty-six?

Sitting here listening to The Smiths, drinking Diet Coke and vodka, wearing gray sweaters like emotional armor.

This — again — is not the person I was supposed to be.

But at least I still have a collection of gray sweaters.

So, {D}, you got your wish.

I’m unemployed.

It could be worse, I suppose.

I could be blacklisted for raping someone