benders in my fender.

I started writing a story.

I started writing it for you, or at any rate what you represent to me because I will never meet you and you will never read it. I mean at least this time you're real and that makes this a little less "all in the head" sort of crazy but only marginally. I started writing it because you are the type of person I want to meet and I will never meet you by letting my eyes get bloodshot while staring at a computer. Although the ironic twist of this is that my eyes still get bloodshot by staring at the computer anyway but instead of doing dumb things that amount to nothing I write dumb things that will never be printed out.

Or at any rate I was going to. I had this whole story mapped out, even wrote a full page of it but then lost all my confidence. I mean where are you? Hell, where am I? Sitting behind this screen with its electric rays of light soaking into my skin and all I have to show for it is about 600 words that don't quite work with one another correctly and a world outside that I know nothing about. I feel desperate and overwhelmed. I keep thinking about escaping and then I think that writing is the solution for that and why else do most of the writers I love write. Yeah yeah to get some sort of point across maybe at times but maybe also just to put the blinders down and say fuck you to the world, I'll be somewhere else. Perhaps this works.

It's never quiet in this house. I walked in one day and they were shooting porn and I walk in at night and it's people rehearsing plays or at 4am people coming home and no one has ever heard of indoor voices here. Most of this wouldn't bother me if I could land a job that started me at 1pm again but it's all early jobs here.

Creditors are chasing me and I'm just not answering my phone. It's the same bullshit it always is. Pay this and this and this and this and this won't even make minimum but pay it anyway and later we'll just say you didn't so I guess this negotiation is null and void.

Yeah I guess I'll go work on that story now, thanks.

a new job.

I am now a used book buyer for Powell's. This is exciting but overshadowed by the fact that, despite the pay increase, I still need to find a second job. At the moment it's looking like I need a job that pays at least $11.50 /hr and gives 37.5 hours a week. On top of the 37.5 hour I work per week already. If I can manage to find this I would only need to do it for 4 months. So around July I'd be done. Just in time, I suppose, for people to come visit and for me to make my way to visit Arizona for a bit.

I am afraid of becoming burnt out and overwhelmed. I am prone to depression and this sort of feat would either exacerbate that or manage to keep me so focused that I would lose sight of the things around me. Neither prospect seems terribly appealing. But it seems as though it is either the prospect of four months of nonstop work or nonstop years of stress about what I'm going to do financially. This doesn't even factor in student loans.

I am not so worried about being able to find a job, but it will be difficult to find a job that has just the right hours, that lets me work ten hour days on my weekends from the bookstore and six hour days on the other three.

I did this in Arizona for a little over a month and felt like shooting myself at the end of it. But to be fair I factor that more due to the type of work I was doing for my second job rather than the amount of time invested. Though admittedly it was less time.

Oh well. I have an idea for a story. It's a little light hearted compared to most of the things I write. I just need to will up the drive to put it down.

It may a bit.