I have been out of work the entire month of August. Not because I am a loser and I got fired or laid-off. No, i’m just an idiot, and I resigned from a stable and decent paying position in the middle of our country’s current complete economic and social collapse. But why would I do such a foolhardy thing? I’m not sure.
It has been over two years since I had taken any time off from work, and I was due for a break, so that was part of my decision surely, but mostly it was because Mistress Kay and I finally had the financial stability (I thought) to allow me an opportunity to take the time to find a career I could really feel passionate about, rather than working a job I resented every day to keep the bill-collectors away. I figured I had plenty of money saved, so I could take the entire month of August to relax, and write, and leisurely find my way into a dream job.
I was wrong on so many levels. First off, i’ve never been out of work before. I didn’t realize how stressful it is, even when it is a self imposed break. Stressful and emasculating. Marissa and I have always been good to each other, and taken care of each other financially. Whenever her funds have been a little tight, I have always been happy to step in and save the day, because I could afford to, and she is worth it. Now I find that it’s easier to give than to receive. She has been happy to step up her game and shoulder the lions share of the bills this month, i’m sure because she feels the same way toward me that I do to her, that is, that she can afford to, and i’m worth it.
The thing is, I don’t feel worth it. I feel about as useful as a poopy flavored lollipop, sitting at home staring at the wall while she is busting her round little butt to bring home the flavor crystals. It stinks like dead mice in a heater vent.
She disagrees with me on this. Even with our lowered income, she has expressed great joy in having me around when she gets off work. Granted, i’ve been an excellent trophy husband, i’ve kept the house clean, run all the errands, and i’ve even been pumping iron regularly, so that when she gets home from a long day at work she at least has something nice to look at while I rub her feet and feed her the dinner I spent multiple minutes slaving over in the microwave.
The fact remains however, that this is not a sustainable living situation, one, because my bank account is leaking faster than the popes birthday balloons (because they’re holy), and two, because i’m losing my mind. I thought that a month off from work would allow me the freedom i’ve been lusting after to write and write and write some more, but this sadly has not been the case. It turns out it’s hard to concentrate on something as enjoyable and ultimately selfish as writing when you have legitimate concerns about where your next meal is coming from, or how you’re going to convince your mother that it’s a good thing that you may be moving back home at the age of twenty-five, because you have a college degree, but you’re making less money now than you did when you were doing construction at sixteen.
Could I get a job relatively easily? Yes. Would it be any better than the job I left, good enough to justify my decision to try something new? You tell me. I have five days remaining in my month off, and I have neither found a new job, nor written anything closely resembling good literature.
That second part is the true shame. All I want to do is write, and I can’t because I am distracted by worries about how i’m going to pay the bills, since, let’s face it, stringing words together in clever patterns isn’t yet making me enough money to keep the lights on, let alone paying for me to have a place with fancy things like electric lights anyway. What’s a talented young gentleman with impressive chest hair to do?
One word: Patronage. I need to become some royal pricks pet word smith, like all the movers and shakers used to have during the european Renaissance. Why is this not still popular? Rulers, nobles, and wealthy aristocrats with too many gold pieces on their hands used to collect artists and writers and musicians like they were rap moguls building an entourage, and they would basically pay them living wages, so that the artsy folk could then focus on the imporant stuff, that being the creation of their art. The artists benefited because they suddenly knew where their next meal was coming from, and the rich folk benefited by having their mansions filled with beauty, which they used to impress and subdue their rivals.
Judging by the general smell of desperation and fear on Wall Street, odds are the USofA is well on its way to complete collapse and ruin, and we’ll soon be thrown back into a new dark age full of feudal warlords and bubonic plaguery. Let me be the first to raise my hand to the new warlords and say, “Hey Lord Humungus, pick me. I’ll fill your desert halls with beautiful words or naughty limmericks (your choice), and i’ll even write your own personal history, however you want the world to remember it.”