The Bloody Doors Off

Of course politicians lie. Otherwise, we wouldn’t vote for them.

Me, a few minutes ago. But someone must’ve said this before.

(Let it be known: I have an endgame with this post. I just don’t know how I’m gonna get there. And a theme will emerge. I think. If you aren’t interested, you’re more than welcome to close the tab now, or delete the email if any of the five of you don’t wish to go on this trek. I promise not to be offended.)

I was on Twitter an hour ago. My feed has become increasingly right-wing since E. Lon Hubbard wasted four billion on it. There was video of a Minnesota State Senator standing in the chamber and proclaim that he’s “never met a single person who’ve claimed they were hungry.” Went so far as to declare he had only consumed a power bar that morning, and by definition that meant he was ‘hungry’.

He was orating against a bill that would feed school children in need.

Jesus fuck.

A man fabricated his entire being to get elected, and when his deceit came to light his boss shrugged his shoulders and said, “eh”. He still sits in the chamber because it ensures their party retain control of Congress.

A dingus (a dingus is a group of blathering idiots who call others ‘snowflake’ while refusing to wear a mask that prevents the spread of a disease that killed over one million people worldwide, and shut down the downtown core of their nation’s capital for three weeks because they refuse to get a life-saving vaccine…)

Eh, fuck it. I can’t link the words. But you get what I mean. The extreme fringes of society.

Dinguses. We’re surrounded by dinguses.

And I doubt it’s going to get better.

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Jumping tracks now.

Don’t worry, I looked to make sure no subways were approaching.

Eleven years ago, I began freelancing as a graphic designer. Out of necessity, honestly. I’d been laid off after four years working nights in a boutique investment banking firm (prior to that, 11 years in a major IB). I’d gotten that job because I knew the people who’d started the company a few years prior. I was in my 40s, and there was a glut of talent in the market. So I took a leap of faith.

And it’s today. I’ve since had two long-term contracts with one of the big five banks (in different departments), I’ve worked with married lawyers working from their home and shared the first listen of Sheryl Crow’s Tuesday Night Music Club on their beatbox. Applied for a shitload of full-time jobs over the years (because this was always meant to be temporary) and barely received a nibble on my resume. Only two of the five national banks I can say I’ve worked for. Got an interview with a third (which I was notified of while Kevin, Larry and I were making arrangements for mum’s memorial just hours after she’d died), but their big test was circling brand mistakes on a paper copy of their presentation template).

It’s ebbed. And flowed.

Yesterday I received a call about a short-term contract with (you guessed it) one of the banks. Full-time hours, hybrid (work from home 3-4 days a week). I shot it down.

I’ve got a long-term client that I renegotiated my rate with (to my advantage) last year when I was being headhunted by another firm) and I didn’t want to destroy the goodwill built over the years (they consider me family; if only they’d fucking hire me, right?).

Then I got the email with the details. And the hourly rate.

Which. Holy shit.

So I threw my hat in the ring.

But I know. I know. There won’t be a first-round interview. There never is when it comes to these guys. Always told, “we’re looking for someone with more experience”. (Over twenty fucking years as a graphic designer and presentation specialist who specializes in the financial sector. How much more time do you need?)

The expectations, they are low.

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Okay, I lied. There is no narrative thread to follow. If you sussed out a theme, feel free to drop a comment.

Here’s how I’m really feeling.

I’m gonna be 57 later this year. Physically I am a wreck. Low red blood cell count that, at best, could be tied to the arthritis in my lower back (when a CT scan of your bowels picks up the degeneration, take notice). I’m fucking exhausted all the Gorddamned time. I’m nowhere near making enough monthly income to help support this family.

I’m depressed.

I’m more than depressed.

And I’m slowly losing my footing.

There. I’ve admitted it.

The weight’s still there.

Okay.

I’m not looking for sympathy, or encouraging words, or clicks. I know I’m loved and that I have amazing friends.

And.

I’ll get through this.

In time.

Meanwhile.

Here.

Have a cat.