Meditations of the unemployed

Being a loser is completely glorified in the media.

Just like bulimia and gang violence, loserdom has been idealized and transmogrified into an almost zen-like state, a nirvana of jobless peace filled with rock and roll, x-box, and curly fries. Aside from the cinematic crimes of the Revenge of the Nerds series and Dangerous Minds, I feel like this false portrayal is easily the most tragically misleading load of horse shit to date. Being unemployed and broke fucking sucks.

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I swore upon various religious texts that I would never end up back here. Guess the fuck what.

They say you can never go home again. Turns out you can, it just sucks gargantuan wang. Blossoming adulthood wilts under the steely judgmental eyes of parents, and independence, pimpery, self-worth, and all other holy things vanish like so many farts in the wind. Fuck moving home, fuck being broke, fuck being a loser.

Listen closely, kids, I’m not going to repeat myself. Dependency is a crime, in any form. Emotional, financial, whatever. It’s an intolerable weakness that has become so pervasive in our great nation as to be tolerated, even accepted as normal behavior.

But not here. I hate the weak.

Independence is the only true virtue; such is the tao of ice coldery.

Watching myself since I got back from Brazil, from Montana… It’s a dark and depressing tale of worthlessness and decay. Filling out applications, writing cover letters, sleeping alot… It blows. Such atrophy I have never known.

So here I am, sitting at a desk in a room I swore up and down I’d never inhabit again, loathing everything. How did it get this far. Am I not educated?

Being completely isolated in this big house is certainly of no help. My parents, retired and restless, spend their summers wandering the Great American Wilderness with various aunts and uncles, trailer in tow. That leaves my pathetic ass here to water the lawn, pick up the mail, and contemplate the universe between naps. Not havin dollars makes shit worse; I can’t swing the cash to go out and lead any form of a normal social life. My overly loving and generous friends buy me drinks, but that just sucks. People don’t buy me drinks, I buy people drinks. Charity is a filthy word. Alone, haunting this empty house, I get real weird. Regular social interaction is all that keeps me from reverting to some previous incarnation, a shriveled and twisted creature that hard drink, exercise, and good friends banished years ago.

Now the only dude I’ve seen in four days is the mailman.

Everything is OK though. I have new friends.

The cast of Law and Order SVU; we’s folks now. I had never watched an episode of any legal drama before that god damn typhoon we sat through in Brazil, and now I watch them all day. They’re fascinating for no good reason, completely absorbing me in a way no show since Ren and Stimpy has managed to do. Turns out, with a little foresight and an accurate TV guide, you can make it through an entire broadcast day, 11 AM to midnight, watching nothing but the X-Files and various Law and Order incarnations.

Like I said, I stop going out and I start getting weird. I find myself eating an entire package of mint It’s Itses in one episode, and cheering like fat mom at a high school softball game whenever they get the Bad Guys.


I watch my neighbors through the blinds, silently staring like a lemur as my neighbor works on pouring his new driveway. What should I sneak over and write in the concrete tonight, I wonder. Pimps up hos down? Some Shakespeare quote? Kerry Edwards 04? But then the commercial break is over and I slink back to the safety of the recliner.

I downloaded the entire Beck discography. Beck fucking rules. I’ll turn up Mellow Gold to full blast, dance around my kitchen in nothing but basketball shorts and a creepy smile, eating pop-tarts and waiting for my phone to ring. Sounds fun, right?

Wrong, bitch. Dead wrong. I need out and I need out now. This is not the auspicious beginning to my Mid Twenties Golden Age that I want; sinking into the quagmire of worthlessness that is the Live At-Home Post Graduate. A completely unacceptable state of affairs. Employment must be procured, to free me from my fiscal chains. Miss Sawyer will be moving up here soon, and our fabulous apartment in San Francisco/Oakland/Somewhere will be the site of such merriment and festivity as the world has never known. But not if I can’t pay rent.

A paycheck is the key to it all. Freedom, expansion, mobility, women, revelry, it all hinges on the Almighty Dollar, the American God. It’s becoming a problem, poverty. I’m one handle of Wild Turkey away from filling out a fucking Best Buy application. That’s how desperately I need to move. Welcome to Jack in the Box, may I take your order? I realize that the whole finding a job thing is a slow and painful process, like acupuncture or a Warriors game, but I have no patience for it. None.

The way I see it, it’s time for all you ingrates to give back. Ask not what Trevor can do for you, reader, but what you can do for Trevor. Help me help you. No job = no money = no fun = no interesting blog entries. Look my shit up on, I’m a qualified IT professional, computer engineer, and writer. Take your pick, I’ll do whatever, just get me a vocation. Hire me.

Let’s enjoy a sample entry, should my unemployment continue:

September Somethingth, 1:30 PM.
Just got up. Thought about taking a shower, decided against it. Watched The Golden Girls, it was good. My phone rang, and it was a company offering me a job. They said they’d let me do whatever I wanted to and pay me $100,000 a year! Then I woke up, turns out I had passed out on the coffee table again. I think I’m gonna build a battleship replica out of fruit snacks tonight, unless there’s bass fishing on TV.

I think I’m gonna cook some Top Ramen and then maybe call Information, just to hear a human voice.

I also saw a squirrel on the power lines, he (or she) was funny.

The End.

the horror.



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