It’s been six months since I've had a job. Within those six months I've applied to about thirty-five jobs. I've written three tragic short stories with a fourth coming up, all based
on certain real life events, I got together with a great girl only to separate
a month later, and I've grown out an “ I don’t give a fuck anymore” beard. So I
guess you could say I've been pretty productive. Out of those thirty-five jobs, I know for a
fact that twenty were hiring, out of those twenty I've called exactly fifteen for follow-up
calls and out of those fifteen, I haven’t received a motherfucking thing. Out of my
three short stories, two tie into one another and the topic has to deal with a
broken heart and the latest story is a fictitious take on the day my dad died.
So even though I've been busy these past six months, I have also been under a
fuck load of stress. Basically to the point that I can easily talk to someone,
they say some random ass remark and then I’ll argue with them for a great
couple of minutes. Someone once said that stress is “the confusion created when
one’s mind overrides the body’s basic desire to choke the living day lights out
of some motherfucker, who desperately deserves it.” And society often wonders why
people tend to go crazy. There’s some food for thought for your ass...
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