Day 12: The Best Damn Spy

I've decided that I want to be a spy. I can't tell you much more than that. However, I can tell you this, I will be the best damn spy out there; My trunk will always be closed and there will never be any small pyscho-killers hiding in my suitcase. I hear that's a big problem. Oh, did I mention why I bought such a big suitcase? Pillows. Yes, I packed pillows. I was talking about fears the other day and forgot to mention my fear of used pillows. Don't judge me until you take a good whiff of those hotel pillows and then try to put into words what you smell. It isn't pretty.

Ahhhhh, signing off for now, Day 13 to 25 will be spent in Las Vegas, Mexico, and Los Angeles. If I had a job, I would call it a vacation. But I don't have a job. So I will call it the reason I will starve to death in February. Or I can call it a diet.

P.S. I will be very very very pissed off if I have to buy an umbrella in Las Vegas tomorrow.

Day 11: Mondays Always Come

Sorry Korona. Mondays always come. Your idea of staying awake Sunday night in the hopes of Monday not coming is solid. But I tried it all last week in order to slow down the unemployment train, make it last a little longer, but it didn't work. Damn the Gregorian calendar. And the pope who came up with it. Greg, Pope Greg, Greg the Pope, is that his name?

11:00am. I feel like I should be doing something. I managed to get pants on, but I really don't like the feeling on my legs. The fact that I have them on now, I feel like I should be going somewhere or something. I've now decided that I'm doomed finding a job other than at the gas station or grocery store. And if that's what it comes down to, I'm just going to work the nightshift in the worst part of Scarborough and hope I get shot. Or hey, I can go back to school, yet again for another thousand years, for say, engineering. Engineering, that's a good one! Lose all grasp on reality, like we were talking about earlier, become a leg-humper. What happens when an engineer gets together with another engineer? How would that work? I'm not getting a clear picture here of simultaneous leg-humping.

I'm thinking if I really want to go the suicidal route during my tenure on unemployment (don't worry, I'm just PMSing, every month I want to kill myself at least once until the feeling of a tumor the size of a basketball growing on my ovaries goes away), spice up the suicide a little, I should get a job driving taxis around Edmonton. Edmonton is a knife town, so I imagine I wouldn't die right away, I'd just bleed slowly to death. Or I could be an Edmonton cop, but I already see a few problems with that. I wouldn't be able to arrest anyone for speeding, pot, or having darker skin. I'm pretty sure that's the entire population of the jails and all courts cases around here.

Well, at least I'm better with the OCD lately. Except that I've still got a fear of large suitcases (I've got a fear of small pyschopaths who can hide in large suitcases so therefore I've got a fear of large suitcases), small airplanes (coming back from LA via San Fran on a Canadair. I'm a little concerned about that), really large airplanes (Airbus thinks they can fly 500 pax planes across the ocean. Hopefully they can build a plane that can land on water and float this time because they certainly have problems with making ones that fly), churches (they are always getting people to drink stuff, reminds me of Jonestown), wax (I'm afraid of it tearing my skin completely off), high-heel shoes (I'm afraid of heights, and anything that makes me an inch taller or more makes me feel like the air is getting thinner and I'm going to stop breathing or fall to my death), sharp knifes (I only buy dull ones), sharp scissors (I hide them before I go to sleep), and men with mustaches (seriously, that is like 70's-I'm going-to-sexually-harass-you-creepy-dude and very unhygienic, no?).

Things I'm going to do today: Check to make sure there isn't a small pyschopath hiding in my large suitcase, pack my large suitcase for Mexico before a small pyschopath can sneak into it and hide, check my pockets for loose pills and other random objects that might get me arrested at the airport, and open a new jar of peanut butter. There, life isn't so bad.

Day 10: Premonition? or OCD?

Everyone talks about having premonitions. I have premonitions everyday. I call it OCD. Anyone who knows me knows I have to check my trunk 5000 times before pulling out of a parking lot. Just imagine what I have to go through before going to a job interview. But today, I did not have any premonitions and did not check my trunk and then drove right across the city with my trunk open. Yeah. And your like, oh, she's just going to get worse now. No. I'm not. Screw it. I slept 12 hours. I worked out for 3. Screw the damn trunk. Screw the non-existent goiter I have on my face. Screw my zipper or shoelaces. Screw my dilated pupils I always think I have. Screw the boring conversation I'm having with you, I'm just going to blurt out whatever is on my mind. Like, I don't care that your a teacher and you love children. You just won't shut up, this conversation is boring, and you have no intentions of buying me a drink to compensate for my pain. Now, you haven't shut up for 3 hours. So bye, fuck off, I'm leaving. And, oh my god, Mr. Oilrig dude and your stupid shoulder. Your so not cool and you complain too much. Oh, and your ugly. You shouldn't have introduced me to your part of town because now the waitress is going to spit in your food everytime you go there or anywhere else. She hates you and thinks I'm prettier, so bleh!!!!!! (you can be pretty, too, if you tip good). Mr. I'm so hungry I'm going to have, get this, french fries. Cheapass. And those are going straight to your big fat ass, too. Did you even spring for gravy? I don't think you did. You obviously don't care that your fat, but I guess your just a cheapass. Should I even mention yellow taxi or chemical engineer dude x 2? Nah, I'll save that for another day. I've got lots of those stories.

See, this is how OCD works. We no longer have to spend all day chasing down a gazelle and kill it with our bare hands. I don't even know what a gazelle is, I just figured it's prehistoric and fits into my story. Please don't correct me, that's annoying and wrong and I'll hate you for it. And we no longer have to spend back-breaking hours working in a factory or plowing the fields (lol. Don't say it!!! Your so rude...) without the machinery and technology we have today. We sit in cubicles all day, we have to account for every second we go to the washroom or smoke a cigarette or, omigod, have a joint to cope with the extreme mundaneness and hopelessness of our working lives. If we are not particularly liked at work or we don't particularly like work, we have to worry about every word that comes out of our mouths (I obviously don't worry too much about that or I would have a job right now). Customers and supervisors and managers and any rich dude on the face of the planet is always right, even when they are ridiculously wrong. Like, "have my plane ready in Kandahar in 1 hour". Now, really, how is that going to work? Your plane is in New York. Should I split an atom and change the formation of the earth for you? Because, really, I only make $12 an hour, I don't see how that could possibly be in my job description. But hey, I'm a team player. However, I did not contribute to the $1000 baby shower present the office gave to some guy I don't know and wasn't even invited to the baby shower and the pilot thinks I'm stupid because I think he's ugly. That could change the dynamics of what you consider a team player. Anyhow, the point of my story is, we have unused energy that needs burned off before it eats our brain and we all become neurotic fat people with bad hair. And it's really all about the hair for me.

Yes, I might never have another date again (well, not with the same guy anyway) nor will I probably ever work again, but at least I won't be checking my trunk anymore. And I can work on my hair. Yeah, it's all about the hair. It really is.

Day 9: Meals on Wheels?

"We continue to develop new menus and programs to meet the needs of a growing population of seniors, chronically ill and others who require meal services to regain, maintain or improve their health."

Thanks for the suggestion, dude, but it appears that I'm healthy. I managed to chase down a rabbit today and eat it. I also chased down a guy in a cowboy hat but I didn't eat him. I just wanted to let him know that I didn't like his hat.

Moving on, Meals on Wheels needs to diversify. I find the only time I am hungry is when I've drunk copious amounts of alcohol. I'm assuming everyone else feels the same way. So, in order to need Meals on Wheels, breakfast needs to consist of a bottle of the martini of the day if the housebound client doesn't already have a keg installed into their kitchen counter (one day, one day I'll have a home. and that home, that home will have a kegger, under the counter, delivering icy cold beer to everyone in need) and eggs, eggs wrapped in bacon. Then dipped in butter. Okay. Forget the butter. I'm done with butter.

I did jobhunt today. It wasn't pretty. I began to froth at the mouth near the end. But I will prevail. Besides, Friday through Sunday are the best days to jobhunt. Your resume will be at the top of the pile. As you already may know, what the HR computer program doesn't chew up and spit out, the 20-year-old HR assistant making $12/hour will read but only up until lunchtime on Monday. Lunchtime, by the way, is at 10:30am. And they start work at about 10:00am. It takes about 3 minutes to go through a resume from the top of the pile and realize that this person is a douchebag, so 3 x 10 = 30 minutes. 1 out of 5 resumes are competition. So basically, your competing with 1 other person if you apply for jobs Friday through Sunday. It's sound logic. Trust me. If you applied for the job on Monday through Thursday, your totally hosed.

At the Rem and drinking a Hog. trying to convince the cook to do Meals on Wheels for me. Indian food for breakfast. Yum. Happy Weekend...

Day 8: Sombrero Required

Nah, it's really still Day 7 but I don't plan on waking up tommorrow. I've rediscovered Peach Schnapps. Thanks J, and thanks even more for helping me reinvent my alcoholism. I appreciate it, and Visa doesn't know I'm unemployed yet so I'm all good. It will take them a few months to figure out I'm never going to pay them again, but by then, my phone will be cut off and I'll be homeless so I'm not too worried.

Peach Schnapps smells good, tastes good, and I can actually afford to bathe in it. So I did. Strange, it was liquor I long considered to only be mixed with orange juice in a 2L coke bottle and drunk through a swivel straw at a bush party. I never drank it again after I fell down a ravine and into a golf course. I hitchhiked home that night because I thought I would miss curfew, only to be picked up by a police officer and then dropped off at a bus stop(still made it home by 10pm, and I smelled peachy, toooo peachy...). Now I'm old enough to fill the 2L coke bottle with martinis: 2 shots vodka + 1 shot peach schnapps + 1 mango puree. I'm pretty sure you can clean your bathtub with that, too.

Job search begun. I've plagiarized my resume and applied for every job that allows me to vacation 1 week every month in Mexico. Sombrero required. No, really. I need a Sombrero. Anyone? I want to wear one for my driver's license photo...

You know, maybe I'm going to wake up tommorrow after all. Buy some shoelaces. Sew a button on my coat (I usually just throw the coat out after the third button pops off, never did figure out the whole sewing thing. But I'm unemployed now and need to conserve. Conserve...coats...I guess). I was going to do a little grocery shopping, but I don't really feel like french fries in the mall. In fact, I'm not really a fry person at all. Back to peanut butter, I guess but that requires camping in aisle 73(oh, and I'm never eating butter again. Unless there's a martini combination I don't know about using butter...).

And no, I'm not getting fat from sleeping all day. I feel like freaking Rocky. I eat. I feel fat. I go to the gym because, well, I feel fat, and I don't have a job, do I? What else am I going to do? Grocery shop in the food court at the mall? Then I drink. I feel fat again. Go to the gym again. Then I crush pistachios with my neck and watch Family Guy. Ah, screw the white picket fence, this is the life...living the dream...ridng through the mystical valley on a unicorn...

Day 7: What Happened to Poodle?

First of all, I'd be really po'ed if I found out some of my friends weren't following my blog. My friends that are following and don't have to worry about their car and/or house being toilet papered are asking the very valid question, "What happened to Poodle?". Well, let me tell you this, I am not the same person I was 10 years ago, 5 years ago, or even 2 years ago. He will survive and I can't be responsible for anything or anyone associated with my past employment.

Let me explain. I've never been fired before. Okay, except when I was 14 I was taken off the schedule for 1 of my 3 part-time jobs for cleaning too much (Korean and German backgrounds rarely see eye-to-eye on whether or not you should be keeping product from 1962. It was a bulk food store...). Oh, and of course, Taiwan, women aren't supposed to argue with a man employing them and I mean, who goes into a job thinking, "I'm never going to argue or speak my mind again?". Well, I'm sure it happens all the time in countries where you run the risk of getting stoned to death, those trendy countries always on the brink of modern socialism. Anyhow, I guess I've been fired a few times before. So never mind my meak little comment, "oh, ooooooooohhhh, I've never been fired before..." F%&# it. I get fired OFTEN. Anyways, I am a firm believer of business karma. Basically, if you are stupid, something bad will happen to your business. The bulk food store closed down a couple of years later. The school in Taiwan, well, their roof just collapsed (apparently the mice in the computer towers were devestated). A few other places I quit and they also just closed up. And this, friends, had NOTHING to do with me. Divorces, maybe. But that's another story and will possibly be a screenplay someday (How to Break Up a Marriage in Ten Seconds). Just takes one phone call...

Soooooooo, what I'm saying is, business karma. If your stupid, and you know it, then be prepared and get your resume ready. If your in denial about how you've screwed the company up, then I hate to say it, your eating sand at the end of the day because your going down with the ship. I can only wish people luck and hope never to see them again. And that's what I'm doing for poodle. Good-luck poodle, hope to never see you again.

Day 6: Butter. Yum.

First of all, ban unsalted butter. People who eat butter should be not worried about their salt consumption. Baking should also be banned or at least called by it's real name, butter dipped in sugar and coated in chocolate. This way, timeless recipes such as bacon-wrapped butter or butter dipped bacon aren't discriminated against. Lets pay homage to butter and stop with the lies, slice ourselves a nice piece of butter and celebrate.

Yup. Haven't left the apartment yet. No, haven't applied for jobs yet. Yup, eating butter for breakfast. And I'm not using the toilet. That's what they expect me to do.

Second of all, I have nothing. Really, I don't. I've really just been drinking. Definitely humpday for the unemployed. You can smell us coming in the malls. The denial of having a beer for breakfast, the realization that the wait time for the fifth department that Roger's has transferred you to is causing a small tumour on the side of your head (kind of weighs you down, my head will always be hung to the side now, slowly becoming the hunchback/goiter image of the unemployed), and the reality that you actually have to leave your apartment and go to the mall to cancel your internet to pay for your alcoholism(I can steal internet from anywhere, I have no idea why I bought the internet stick to begin with) or your car insurance (your basically too drunk to drive when your unemployed and if you do end up driving drunk, there is no point having car insurance because your ass is going to jail anyway. Kind of like jumping off a 3-story building with a parachute, it's not going to stop you from landing on the neigbhor's car)

No, didn't apply for jobs. Lay off. But I copied and pasted a kickass resume off the internet today. I'm no doctor, but really, how much skill does it take to prescribe pills that make you impotent or make you kill yourself anyway?