3 Awful Things I've Learned About Myself From Being Jobless (Furlough, Day 2)

We're into day 2 of the government shut-down and what has become my own personal Rear Window. I spend most of my days staring out the window and phoning the police to report my neighbors' suspicious activities.

Holy fuck! He's planting those tulips too close to the house. I'm calling the police. 

I've also stopped tuning into the news because if I want to see nothing getting accomplished, I will simply watch my son do his math homework. We're at the part of the film where Jimmy Stewart has begun to turn away visitors and has made some rather unpleasant discoveries about not just his body-smuggling neighbor, but himself as well. Like these:


1. My Self-Worth is Predicated on Making Money

Sure, having a freakishly large penis is nice, but it doesn't pay the bills. I mean it could, but apparently the Puppetry of the Penis theater has closed its doors for good.

And yes, this is totally a thing. 

And I've realized that a very large part of my self-worth hinges on my ability to provide. What's more, my go to's in college--drinking and food binging--all come with hefty price tags, and if I can't bring in money, I'll be damned if I'm going to spend anything. Of course, this wouldn't be such an issue, if I wasn't so damned useless. Which brings me to number 2.

2. When the Zombie Apocalypse Comes (and it will Come), I Will Be the First to be Eaten

If the Walking Dead has taught us anything, its that the only people who will survive the oncoming zombie invasion are those who possess useful survival skills like hunting, farming, repair, or are hot and can deliver long monologues.

This bitch couldn't cook.

These skills elude me. Other things that elude me: home improvement, a green thumb, and any degree of physical fitness. This leaves me little options of things to do during the lay-off except stare into the black abyss of my money hungry soul. Which brings us to the worst of my self-realizations...

3. I Actually Like Work

I don't even like typing those words. I hate work. I complain endlessly about it--the pointless meetings, the crippling bureaucracy, the annoying, annoying people. But here I am, sitting at home realizing a life-long dream of having nothing to do, and I miss being at work. I miss the challenges, I miss the strategies, I miss overcoming crippling stupidity, and most of all I miss the high of accomplishing something despite all the aforementioned daily obstacles.


Gotta go. My neighbor just walked right past his damn empty trash can for the last time. If the cops won't get involved, I'm going to have to call in the FBI.