Wear Your Underpants; A Cheese Factory Tale

So one time, at the cheese factory, we had a guy who was fresh out of prison working as a janitor. He had a bushy mountain-man beard going on, but what he was really known for was the complaints about his refusal to wear undergarments. See, at the cheese factory everyone wore white, and if you didn't buy your own whites, you could use a jumpsuit deal provided by the factory. Those things were well-worn and therefore a bit thin.

People complained, especially the older women on the janitorial staff with him and the younger women who had no desire to see his hairy butt-crack. It was, indeed, hairy. My lovely photographic memory has the moment I realized what I was seeing as I followed him up a staircase burned into my brain. I was told that the front view was even worse, but cleverly kept my eyes up to at least mountain-beard level after that.

He was told several times by management to wear something under his jumpsuit, and didn't. So they fired him. Today's lesson: Wearing underpants to work is probably a good idea, unless you're a stripper.

A Kid, a Puppy, and a Pointless Story

I was looking over my blog and thought I might go ahead and update you about the dog situation. Quick recap: Excited puppy too much for 11-year-old girl to cope with.

When my sister calmed down, she decided to have a puppy/kid training lesson, and it was a success. The puppy got treats for keeping her paws on the floor instead of jumping, and since it was a specific lesson with specific instructions, my daughter concentrated and obeyed. By the end, she was able to walk across the room without squealing, the puppy was able to follow her without jumping, and she could feed the puppy a treat from her bare hand, though she tended to drop it more often than not.

Another success began with a recent question: How come nobody ever takes me to the movies?

The answer, of course, is: one time, you went to the movies with grandpa and ran out crying during a preview for Coraline. He didn't catch you until you were outside, and you were maybe seven years old. You then began refusing to go into movie theaters.

That's not what I said, though. I said, "Why, do you want to go to the movies?" She did, so we went, and it was a normal movie experience. Since this is all rather anticlimactic, here's a cheese factory story:

One time, at the cheese factory, a coworker told us that he'd heard a completely pointless story once, and it had inspired him to learn to tell completely pointless stories. Here is his story:

He was under the influence of a mind-altering substance and had locked himself out of his apartment. Since he was locked out, he went for a walk. He realized at some point that he wasn't at all sober and he'd wandered into a very bad neighborhood. He was lost and very possibly in danger, so he called the cops on himself. They took him in and locked him up.

An older man there who was very friendly asked him, "Do you like boys, or girls?"

That was pretty much the end of the story. We all looked at each other in confusion. A story like that had to have an ending, didn't it? No, apparently it didn't.

"Well, did you get back into your apartment?"

Yes.

"How?!"

Oh, I'd left the window unlocked. I climbed through.

Mr. Former-Coworker, if you ever read this, thank you. I've told that story so many times, and the looks it gets me are priceless.

DSL - Dog-Specific Legislation

My sister has rottweilers. If you just grimaced or shuddered, feel free to hit the back button, because the dogs are not the problem in this story. The dogs are house pets. One is from a long line of show dogs, and spends most of his time cuddling and asking to be pet. The other is from a line of working dogs, and enjoys fetching things and learning commands. A busy dog is a happy dog, and these dogs are happy.

Puppies do not come trained, this is a sad fact of life. Kids don't come trained, either. When a puppy was introduced to my 11-year-old daughter, there was much drama because puppies nip, and they have no sense of personal boundaries whatsoever. It has been six months now. The puppy is quite a bit bigger and far better trained. She knows things like off, down, toy, bring, and leave it. The kid, however, does not seem to understand this.

My daughter panics every time the puppy comes toward her. The puppy's intentions are greet-and-sniff. My daughter starts turning away to cower against something, squealing, bending and covering her face. Unless something has happened with her father's dog that I don't know about, she's never been hurt by a dog in her life, and yet she acts terrified.

The puppy sees this squealing and body-contorting, and thinks my daughter is initiating play. My daughter won't listen to simple commands, such as Say off, or Ignore her and keep walking, so the puppy bounces or jumps up or yips, and my daughter claims that the dog has attacked her.

Let's pause a moment. The puppy is a rottweiler. What could happen if a melodramatic pre-teen goes to school and tells someone that a rottweiler attacked her? There's a possibility that two pets could be taken from their home and put down, isn't there? Even if neither dog has ever left a mark?

My sister is a certified dog trainer. It drives her crazy that my daughter, after six months of living with my sister and her dogs, still panics. But only over the puppy. The full-grown male rottweiler she's fine with. He can come greet her and she pats his head awkwardly. He tends to move slower in general, but he is no less capable of acting like a dog than the puppy is.

My daughter is afraid of the puppy's potential to hurt her. She's done this with other things, too. For example: she's been afraid of movie theaters since she was about seven because her dad took her to a scary movie once and she doesn't want to get scared.

My daughter doesn't want to listen to instructions because her fear has gotten in the way, and my sister is so upset that she doesn't want to work with the kid. My sister has taken this stubbornness or fear or whatever it is as a personal insult.

I have now ranted myself into either mental exhaustion or a block, which means that I might have been about to really get somewhere. Can't think anymore, though. My sister's crying because my daughter cries every time the puppy comes up, and my daughter is in her bedroom doing whatever 11-year-old girls do in their rooms alone.

So one time, at the cheese factory, they decided to tell a guy he was being fired for a bunch of tardies during his lunch break. Then they sent him back to finish work all emotional and he cut his hand pretty badly with a box knife. The whole line had to be shut down so they could clean everything. They decided after that to maybe start giving people notice on Fridays after their shifts.

Basket Hats and Groceries

You know what's funny? My daughter putting a holiday basket upside-down on her head and modeling it as a hat to cheer me up, without even knowing what was wrong.

You know what's not quite as funny? Leaving $100 worth of food and groceries at the store because your card won't work. I spent an hour and a half picking through things to find the best deals on what I needed, and added on about thirty dollars worth of cat items, because part of my sister's resentment at me living here is that her cats' behavior problems got worse when I moved into the cat room.

Yes, the cats already had problems. However, after overhearing my sister earlier, I decided that I would resolve her cats' problems, in the hopes of ticking her off slightly less with my existence, and perhaps keeping her from being so desperate to get rid of these cats, which she's had for about 8 years now.

Fast-forward again to the checkout line. I used my card. Incorrect pin. Okay, maybe I made a mistake and used my pin from the wrong card. Incorrect pin. I dug out my list of pins, looked to be certain I had the right card to begin with, and made sure to find the correct pin. Because if you get it wrong three times, your card locks, and you're screwed.

Incorrect pin.

I don't know how I got it wrong three times. The cashier and the manager both looked horribly sorry for me, and did their best to offer other solutions. At this point, however, I just wanted to go home. I was, I will admit, near tears to begin with from my sister. I had then gone a little obsessive over choosing just the right everything so that I could solve a problem, feed my daughter, and have enough left over for gas to get me to the doctor on Thursday, and then I had to walk away from it.

I still have some Bisquick and a couple eggs left, so I can make pancakes for dinner tonight, but we won't be having milk with them. Yes, I intend to figure out what the problem with my card is as soon as possible, but I'm not going back to the store tonight.

So this one time, at the grocery store, I saw someone I worked with at the cheese factory, and she said Merry Christmas, because she recognizes me a decade later. That and my daughter's basket-hats have been the highlights of my day.

PRIVACY NOTICE

Warning: any person and/or institution and/or Agent and/or Agency and/or fanboy/fangirl and/or stalker or any governmental structure (except the high school I graduated from, you know who you are) including but not limited to the United states Federal Government, the government of any nation in, on, or near any continent whose name begins with an A, an E, or any other recognized letter, the moon, Mars, or Venus (excluding Venus's southern hemisphere) monitoring/using/not using/unaware of this website, any of its associated websites, or any unrelated websites...

*pauses for air*

...you do NOT have my permission to steal everything I've ever written under all my various pseudonyms (because I acknowledge that you are all-knowing, omnipotent, know when I am sleeping, know when I'm awake, know when I've been bad or good, but I'm good, for goodness sake so stop watching me pee!) and use it to better the world, including my pictures, and use them to throw darts at, including my art, and draw mustaches, then say you drew it.

Because, of course, the government has nothing better to do than break into random Joe Blow's Facebook and download pictures of his rottweiler sleeping with the new kitten or his kids sitting in a wading pool. In fact, their intention is to steal the pictures of every middle-class person with a Facebook account, edit them in Photoshop, then use this doctored photography to throw them into one of the many empty prisons just sitting around.

Oh damn, I got sidetracked.

You are hereby notified that you are strictly prohibited from disclosing, copying, distributing, disseminating, or taking any other action against me with regard to my stuff that I already mentioned. Even if it's illegal. Especially if its legal status is questionable. Because I know that telling you not to prosecute me means that you can't. In fact, I could go rob a bank, but if I told everyone in the bank before I robbed it that they are hereby notified that they can't identify me in a police lineup or a court of law, they are legally forbidden from doing so. Because I said hereby, and that means business.

(Note: I have never robbed a bank, and I don't intend to, just saying.)

The foregoing prohibitions (See? I said foregoing too. Ha on you, loser!) also apply to anyone I forgot to mention, including Venus's southern hemisphere, your employees (yes, yours), agents, students, friends, families, and any pets capable of speech, whether they're under your direction/control or not.

In other words, consider everything I've ever done, even if I posted it on the internet for the world to see and checked the "public" button on my privacy/security settings, private and legally privileged and confidential blah blah, blah, the violation of my personal privacy is punishable by law.

Celebrities are so dumb not putting signs up or wearing buttons that say this stuff on them, because if they did, they wouldn't have to worry about paparazzi anymore.

Wait, what's this? Is it a link? I wonder where it goes...

Fear-mongering: bored of it.

So one time at the cheese factory, I told them that they were legally forbidden from firing me, and they didn't. No, just kidding, I never said that and anyway, I quit that place.

Alone in Nowhere

I am lonely. The group of friends I had in college has narrowed down to two, neither of whom lives in this part of the country. Somehow, socializing with family doesn't do it for me. I can spend hours talking to them, and I'm only more tense at the end because frankly, my family doesn't like or understand me.

This isn't the kind of they don't understand me that I spouted when I was in high school. I suffer from clinical depression, and they can't wrap their minds around the concept of not just "cheering up." We have different interests. I'd rather stay inside where I'm physically comfortable than sit by a lake. I enjoy exploring the Internet. I enjoy researching something to death in order to write a one-page short story that I'll never show anyone. I tend toward solitude, and my family is made up of highly social people. Overwhelmingly social people. Opinionated people.

Not that I'm not opinionated. The problem, however, is that they have difficulty accepting other viewpoints as valid, and when someone explains motivation for a different viewpoint, they tend to zone out and start thinking up their next argument instead of listening.

So I'm ruling out calling my father to chat about my day-to-day life. Just saying.

That leaves me with two friends, with whom I can only communicate online. I have no phone. I cannot afford a phone. I believe I have three dollars to my name right now, and every two weeks I get between thirty and forty dollars of child support, so driving to the nearest city (an hour and a half) to find an open social group other than the Eastern Star Lodge isn't feasible. To be fair, I have been to the lodge before. I was just bored and uncomfortable being stared at by the other members, all of whom are at least forty years older than me.

I've mentioned this before, but my friends have lives. So what do I do? This is a legitimate, honest question. I've set emotion aside for now to deal with this logically, mostly because I'm wiped out from entertaining my grandmother for five hours. She's lovely to talk to now and then, but it's difficult making conversation when I can't talk about any of my interests.

Sample of Interests (moi)
computers
internet and internet trends
contemporary art
typography
fiction writing
internet research: most recently, BDSM and D/s relationships, and rubber ducks. Totally unrelated, I swear.
abnormal psychology

Everyone's got some oddball combination of things they enjoy discussing, and that's not a finite list, but perhaps you can see the potential for conflict when I'm living in a small town near another small town known for its lake and fishing.

So now I've bored you to death. Pumpernickel. Quartz. Bonobo chimpanzee. That ought to spice things up.

This one time at the cheese factory, a chunk of fat-free cheese fell on the floor, thereby making it inedible. Since it smells like rubber in large volumes, I used my box knife to carve it roughly into the shape of a ball, then dropped it on the floor. Nothing as awesome as a SuperBall, but the fact that it bounced well enough to entertain me for a while is worth noting. I don't eat fat-free cheese, by the way.

Santé Mentale

My mental health is far too precarious for me to feel like a functional human being. It likely doesn't help that the only people I have regular face-to-face contact with (due largely to a combination of location, funds, and lack of employment) are a ten-year-old girl and a 54-year-old man. There is the desk clerk at the library, but I don't consider handing someone my library card and being told You're on computer three quality time. Call me picky.

I'm in an odd position, actually. I'm what you might call a loner, or perhaps socially inept, or even misanthropic. I don't feel a need to constantly be around other people, and have never been a social butterfly, but there comes a time now and then when I find myself in company and realize I actually enjoy it.

I've been craving social interaction lately, which is odd enough on its own, but what's even stranger is realizing that I no longer know where to find it. My college friends have had a couple years to move away and get distracted with other things, and since I've got to drive fifteen or so miles to get to the nearest town and I'm broke as dirt, I find myself testing my Internet to see how far I can stretch 5GB per month.

I'm freakin' out, man.

Winter is hard enough as it is. The seasonal affective disorder kicks in and when I'm not drooping from a desperate need to sleep, I'm on-edge, trying not to have a breakdown. No, I will not throw things and scream and kick and generally make an ass of myself because doing so doesn't actually make me feel better, it just makes me feel out of control. I enjoy control.

You would think that all this would motivate me into a thorough job search. I want a job, I want to look for a job, I know that I have skills which would make me a valuable employee, but my mind is all over the place, unable to concentrate on much of anything.

You're doing a pretty damned good job right now, you say.

My mind really is all over the place. I'm just a really good writer, wink, nudge.

I'm good at psyching myself out. If I can't concentrate, how am I going to function in the workplace? If I have no social skills, how will I ever make it through a job interview, assuming I can make it to a job interview? Strangely, when I get to a certain point in a high-stress situation, my never-ending thoughts clear, I go on autopilot, and I cruise through with smiles and grace. It is, however, difficult to push myself into that state, so I continue hovering on the edge of OMGWTF SHOOT ME. (Don't really, please. Unless you feel like it, then shoot to kill, not to injure.)

And then we have suicidal thoughts. I've been dealing with depression for so long that it feels normal to have them now and then. Just your average little, I could easily drive into that solid concrete wall or I wonder how many of my medications could kill me if I downed the whole bottle? but they pass as quickly as that and it's back to regular life.

Mid-winter I have to think about it for a while before I can move on. I have family who likes to look at the corpse before it's buried, I could at least make sure I die without facial wounds, and my meds would probably just give me seizures and make me puke. Then I'd have medical bills on top of everything else. Damn.

Just completely lost my train of thought, a side effect of overstressing.

So I lost my cheese factory turtle recently. Can't believe I still even had that thing.

This is my anticlimactic ending. C'est la vie.

Shaken, Not Stirred

Ever had a nightmare so profound that you can't shake it off? I've had many, leading me to such rational acts as telling my father not to go to a certain store for a week, and freaking out whenever he wore a certain shirt. Last night's was one for the books. The kind where you wake sweating, feeling nauseous and fairly certain you've been crying, and for the rest of the day you're on edge, praying nothing happens and afraid to do anything, lest it turn out to be real after all.

Warning: Parental Fear Trigger ahead.

The realism didn't help any. I was sitting in this very house alone, my grandmother in physical rehab, during Thanksgiving break, and got a phone call that my daughter had died. She'd been in a horrible car accident and a piece of iron had gone through her eye. Of course, countless times during this nightmare I got visuals of exactly that, of my child screaming in terror, and I was shattered. My child, one of my best friends, my favorite pet, my life's work, something that will never happen again in my life, gone. Just gone.

I was stricken with grief. I didn't want to live anymore, didn't want to eat, and sometimes I was in shock, like I'd just blink and she'd walk through the door. In fact, part of me insisted it had to be a nightmare, and I'd look at the door, knowing she was about to come in, but she didn't. There was no closure, and I couldn't handle it. I couldn't see her again, it didn't feel real, and how was I supposed to go looking for a job when I my world had just died?

And I was still alone, but more alone than ever. My family was worried, but nobody did anything, as always. If you don't talk about it, it goes away, except for me it wasn't going away and it never would.

I was told I should move to the city and try to get a job, now there wouldn't be anything holding me back, and all I could think was I don't care if she was 'holding me back,' I don't feel free, I feel lost. I had the thought that I could finally move to California, that I'd never have to see my ex again, but if I expected to feel relief, I didn't. What if I did move? I'd be living with someone who has a child of her own, a daughter only a year younger than mine. Could I handle it? Would envy kill me? Self-pity? Would I get attached to someone else's child in a sad attempt to replace my own? Could I live with that? Would I ever be a functional human being again?

I didn't know, and I don't know. I woke sweating, nauseous, and spent, and I've spent all day dreading the possibility that my phone might ring, despite knowing that it didn't happen. When I walked into the kitchen this afternoon, I looked at the door, listening for her, and I knew she wouldn't come in. She's due home Sunday night.

I should have called my ex to talk to her, and for a while it seemed like the perfect solution, but I didn't think of it until nighttime, and at this hour, I'd be leaving a shaky-sounding voicemail begging to hear from my daughter in the morning. My ex doesn't return my calls when he has her, though. She doesn't call, and that would be infinitely worse than just trying to make it through the day, just reminding myself that even if the memories of the dream feel as real as any other memories I have, none of it happened.

I still feel sick and exhausted, I don't want to drive anywhere, and I hate that anything that takes my mind off it is only temporary.

So one time, at the cheese factory, someone walked up to me in my new hoodie, and without preamble, cut the ties that pull the hood tight because we weren't allowed to have any loose items or jewelry above the waist. So I clipped a stuffed turtle to my belt loop in protest, and no one ever said a word against it.

I made that damn turtle a raincoat out of an empty bag of latex gloves, and it worked with me for over a year. Yes, I've told that story before, but I told it better this time.

I'm No Quitter

I did not quit taking my medicine. I do not enjoy crippling depression, despite how glamorous it might seem on the surface to be reduced to a pile of sobbing, third-day-shirt self-hatred for no apparent reason. Not that I don't have several damned good reasons to be depressed, like my car being out of service, being unemployed in a small town and required to search for a full-time job to get food stamps, etc.

So, funny story: My mail goes to my sister's house. She went on "vacation" and holed up in her home with her husband and their dogs, and temporarily cut off all communication with the outside world. Can't say I blame them. Unfortunately, during their solitary week, a letter came for me saying to reapply for my insurance and food stamps or they were cutting me off. I didn't get the letter, didn't respond by their date, and lost my medical insurance. Hahahaha, good one, right?

So I scraped up enough money for two of my three medications, but the third cost $99 before tax, so I didn't get that one. I did, however, get my ass in gear to get my insurance reinstated. What's really funny *chuckle* is that all this coincided with my prescriptions expiring *haha* and my doctor doesn't like to renew them without seeeing me *snicker* but I couldn't afford a doctor's appointment! Hahaha!

Well, my insurance is reinstated because my unholy terror of being left without my medications was highly motivating. Unfortunately, another of my medications expired, and though I  was finally able to get the $99 one (at the bargain price of a single dollar), I didn't take it for a few weeks, so it'll take time to build back up in my system. Because it would be too easy if they were instant-happy pills, which to my knowledge don't actually exist.

Remember I mentioned once losing my train of thought when stressed? I could reread what I've written, but I'm feeling pretty apathetic right now, which is a preferred state, so I'm not going to mess that up. The complete blanking of the mind is a relief.

So one time, at the Career Center, I applied to work at the cheese factory. Night shift. We'll see if they hire me, since I quit last time.

One Time, at the Cheese Factory...

We had so much free time on the night shift that when the line went down, and everything was cleaned and swept, I built a camera out of spare cardboard and plastic. It was one of those large, heavy duty-looking things with a scoping lens, though of course, mine didn't actually scope. It had a thin strap to go around the back of my neck, and let me tell you, my coworkers were impressed. My significant other wasn't when I brought it home, but then, not everyone is creativity embodied. It looked like this:

Disclaimer: I don't own a Diana+ Retro Camera, more's the pity.

But mine was cardboard, plastic, and tape, instead of cool stuff.

Exempt From Reading: A Ranting Post

If I could do so and live, I would tear my brain out right now and stick it in a jar on a shelf somewhere for a while so I could have some peace and quiet. My lizard light isn't pulling its weight, and I'm wary of sitting under 100% power for a full hour, but it looks like that's what I'll have to do in order to stay awake. Still, my brain won't shut off. I could easily fall asleep on the hand-me-down futon three feet away, with no pillow and only a throw blanket to keep warm, but I'm so tense right now that I could scream.

So one time, at the cheese factory, I don't know what the hell the people in the other room were thinking, but they came in with a giant piece of scrap cardboard on which someone had drawn a cartoonish picture of a person mooning the viewer. After telling them they were crazy to spend their work time on such a project, I pointed out that there was way too much butt showing to not add a tattoo. "Do Not Enter" was my contribution.

Back on topic, now that I've calmed some. I'm sleepy most of the time, no matter how much or how little sleep I get. That, in addition to unemployment stress, makes it difficult to hold a solid train of thought, which makes it difficult to keep myself on-track and searching for a job. I got stumped on a cover letter and did nothing for about three days trying to convince myself that I was, somehow, still a competent human being.

Perfectionism can be crippling.

"If you got a B and you were capable of getting an A, you might as well have failed," my mom told me, and though I logically know it isn't true, I still fight it. I couldn't think of anything genius to write in that cover letter, and the immediate first thought, after a few false starts, was that if I set it aside, I'd be able to do it later, when my brain wasn't mush. But my brain continued to be mush, and when I reasoned that a decent cover letter (as opposed to an epic one) was better than not applying for the job, that voice in the back of my head told me that it would be a waste of time and effort, both for myself and the hiring manager, if I sent in a cover letter that just got me tossed in the trash anyway.

Yeah, seriously. I see where the problem in that logic is, but I also see the somewhat twisted point. So, you're the psychologist, here. What the hell am I not paying you for? I need answers, dammit! Solve my problems for me while I'm over on the futon, all right?

Before I go, however, I'll give you an update on last time. I managed the Facebook message and did my best with probing questions, and an attempt at friendship was agreed upon. I was not offered the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on a platter this time, but this weekend we'll be watching a Harry Potter movie or two. From the futon. Which is calling me.

ZZZ Z Z Z zzz z z z ... . . .

I am Not Dead; A Lizard Light Tale.

Despite what you may be thinking due to my mysterious and somewhat lengthy absence, I am Not Dead. I am, in fact, alive, though not with a Capital A, only with a lowercase a. I'm sure I've said something about not doing well with Midwestern winters, and though it's still technically NOT winter, as far as I know, it is only a technicality.

I've been using my lizard light to trick myself into feeling like it's daytime (and am sitting under its blue LED glare at this very moment), then going to take a nap. On Friday night I stayed up until 2 a.m. out of sheer stubbornness, then slept until 3 p.m. on Saturday. And this is after using my light regularly. This does not bode well for the coming months.

I would really love to move. I have my sights set on Southern California, where I grew up. "Winter" was a cool, wet season. The plants got droopy and a little sparse, there was the occasional three-day torrential downpour, and coat meant the same thing as jacket because, face it, your typical everyday Southern Californian doesn't need a real coat. Thirty-two degrees is freezing. Literally! Zero degrees is something which simply does not occur.

There is, however, little chance that I can leave the state. My child has another parent, and long story short, that other parent will not allow me to move. Again, very long story.

So one time, at the cheese factory, they wouldn't let me wear a ring because it was a hazard to have jewelery above the waist, but the palm-sized stuffed turtle I had clipped to my belt loop was fine. Go figure.

Job Hunting

Okay, so maybe I'm not hunting for a job, per se. I am hunting for a Career, with a big C. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts, and despite the insistence of one friend that I should try McDonald's, I have not done so. Not for pride, though I have plenty of that, but because the last time I applied to a McDonald's, I was overqualified. In fact, I couldn't find a job anywhere because I was overqualified and undereducated, and that's part of why I went to college. Just a theory here, but I bet the addition of a degree didn't solve the overqualified issue in the fast food arena.

Apply for management, you say.

Been there, done that. Arby's took one look at my B.F.A. in Graphic Design and asked why in hell I wanted to be their manager. I smoothly replied that I'd like to work as a freelance Graphic Designer, not full time, because Graphic Designers are known to burn out. I took their million-page Are you management material? quiz, and they hired someone else. In fact, I took the same kind of quiz for Wal-Mart. It told me I passed, but of the three times I've applied there, it's never panned out. So I'm not unemployed because I'm picky or a snob, in case you were wondering.

I've asked people I know if they know anyone, and only one person excitedly said yes. They then sent me a link via Facebook to Monster.com and said cheerfully that they'd gotten their job through Monster, and they'd even had moving expenses paid for. Sounds pretty sweet, right? They get a brownie point for trying. I've been a member of Monster.com for many, many moons. Never gotten so much as a nibble.

I've been scouring job boards. Koda and Talent Zoo most recently, but jobs in the Graphic Design field want 3-5 years of experience (or, in one case, 35 years of experience. Whether that was a typo or not, I didn't qualify). There are internships, but most are unpaid and are looking for undergrads, which I'm not.

This is totally a bitching post, you know that, right?

Meh, yeah, I know. Sorry about that, it's just dominating everything else in my mind. I need to get my online portfolio set up, but it's so overwhelming that I can't seem to get started. That's the problem with being a perfectionist. I have a strong sense of If you can't be the best, then you may as well be the worst that I'm constantly fighting.

So hopefully this will end well for me. I've got about a month to find a "job" and a place to live, and find some way to pay off the hundreds of dollars I owe the utilities that make them refuse to turn on utilities for me at all until I've fully paid. The university is paying for my gas, water, and electricity right now, and since only water comes with the place, they're pretty butthurt that I never put the others in my name. Hopefully they can just take it out of my financial aid, and not turn the utilities off.

So this one time, at the cheese factory, we made balloons out of the latex-free gloves and played ball with them because the production line was stopped. Working the night shift has its perks. And now you can go away happy.