Good Morrow.

Hello. Yes. It's wednesday. woo. Postoffice (check). Laundry (check). Living (that's next). Anticipation of future events (on-going).

Pen and I were talking about jobs just now, seeing as how I'm more or less out of one. For 4 months you guys had to hear non-stop about the quest for job-dom and a couple leads have come in but nothing concrete yet. So get used to it. And because I was "fired" the EDD (unemployment office, where oddly you don't have to stand in lines), wants to have a conversation about it. Scheduled on the 18th anywhere from 12-2. It's like worse than waiting for a repair man bcs I didn't even order the conversation, but they want to have one anyway or I don't get my free money. Bah. Not working for my director is like not having cable. Blows.

So Pen says she still gets nauseous at the sight of job bullitens getting emailed to her and I'm the same way. It's some sort of phobia I developed, literally. Literally- my heart rate increases and my chest tightens the minute I click on my "favorites"- subcategory-"jobs". Rarely I'll be able to just click, click and I'm fine, and there's a couple that perk my interest and I actually apply. But usually a forlorn childishness sweeps over me. And my internal meter points, to NO. NO FUCKING WAY. I don't know how i got this way. When I was "young", which was probably the problem, I thought not at all about working or the future. I remember once when I was 12 thinking being a secretary might be cool and the only credit i will give to my asshole of a pastor was that he said i was probably made for better things- but maybe that was the worse thing he could've said- it's like automatic condescension. So the idea of working my way anywhere is utterly repellant. (I was most likely born with this sensibility however.) I think my life would be better spent off the radar. It would make for a better story. But for the same reason that I'm not freakishly intelligent, is that I'm skirting the edges of normalcy. Thus, forever tortured by my saner socially-normed self, and my hermit- explorer self. And I know few people in our sphere of existence have the chance to contemplate such things, and yet there it is. So maybe in my darker moments I'm not so much yearning for death as another life or another time, when it was just as simple as work the land or you'll die or I actually had a social excuse to be a woman with prospects waiting for a man to rescue her and itching away in the attic trying to find a way out myself. Nevermind the clock in the corner that reads: now. Grandmother would be very displeased. I will perhaps have to continue, as I did before, with all the things grandmother and I disagree upon.

There's a perfect quote from LittleWomen about writing from the foreign guy that Jo meets later in the book about the stories she writes... it would seem to fit at the end of this quintessentially... but I don't have the book and I can't find the quote. Anyone out here know which one I'm talking about?