Medicating Myself with Chocolate

Welcome to my pity party.

I've spent a lot of time this weekend doing three things: crying, eating chocolate and scouring Monster.com and CareerBuilder for jobs. I even went to Craigslist (is that an act of desperation?).

Oh - I forgot: staring into space has taken up more of my time than usual.

I'm having a rough time. Of course, I'm catastrophising (is this a word??) to the Nth degree while I'm busy staring into space; I'm old, you see. I've had three jobs in the last year. I've been picturing the faces reading my resume, reading the expression on those faces, and seeing the thought bubble, "Hmmm. Great skills, but she's had three jobs in the last year; she must be a flake. Too bad." I see the mouseclicks on the delete button and myself disappearing into the ether with all the other free-floating electrons.

I've been imagining my meagre savings dribbling away, dollar by dollar by dollar as I pay my rent, my car payment, my insurance, my cell phone bill and the myriad of other bills that come every month like clockwork. I see myself being evicted from my apartment, losing my car to the repo man and desperately selling everything I own on Ebay - and ending up living in a box under the overpass of the 170 freeway at Colfax (that's one of the nicer underpasses - it's close to the park).

I wonder what one wears to elicit maximum sympathy when standing on a freeway on-ramp with a sign "Homeless - Will Work For Food." Would it help if I blacked out one (or more) of my teeth with an eyebrow pencil? Do I write the sign with a lipstick?

Of course it helps to write about it.

Crafting the words, finding the perfect adjective, going back to edit a sentence to punch it up or make it funnier - all that helps. There's something so very soothing about the click of my nails on the keys and seeing my words appearing on the screen - and knowing that you are out there to read it. It makes me feel less alone, and I've even managed a smile or two at the thought of myself standing at the on-ramp to the 101 freeway at Laurel Canyon, my cardboard sign in my trembling hands, with one of my teeth blacked out with an eyebrow pencil (I still haven't decided what to wear.).

I know I'll get through this. Between you, the flood of words, my own resilience, survival skills, intelligence and sheer pain-in-the-ass grit and toughness - and the cats (one of which is currently "helping" me type - say hello, Spikey!) who love me unconditionally, I will get through this.

To quote one of my favorite antibellum heroines, "As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again."

Here's hoping for a better day!

Love,

Maggie