07 November 2001 ~ Helena the rug...

I learned today that I type 47 words a minute, without the benefit of caffeine. Also, that's 47 words per minute under great duress, with a stomach-ache, and feeling relatively unhappy. And typing gahd-awful boring shit that I've never seen before in my life.

...And, that's with two fingers... No more, no less.

The lady in the employment agency asked me who taught me to type. I said, "Well, if you noticed, I only used two fingers... They don't really TEACH that anyplace..." She grinned. If I'd had any money, I would have bought her a latté for that grin. She said: "Well, you've got some EXCELLENT skills there. I'm sure we can find you something..." I almost had her mark down that 47 words per minute is pretty low compared to what I can do with some espresso in my blood, but I think she liked me, so I didn't feel overly compelled to sell myself TOO much.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Things are bad.

I don't know exactly how to explain...

It seems like there's this darkness seeping into my brain. As much as it scares me, I find myself falling into it and not wanting to leave. I rarely leave the apartment anymore. When I'm outside, I feel overwhelmed. I feel tired all throughout my body. I just want to go home and curl up on the couch in a little ball. It's too cold for me. Sounds are too loud. People are too... PRESENT for me. Seems like there's this cloud of toxic waste above my head when I'm not in the apartment, raining shit down on me and smothering out the oxygen...

Even when I'm home, I just can't pull myself together. It's a TASK getting out of bed to get the mail. It's a MAJOR task going downtown, and don't even get me started on how difficult it is to get on a bus, travel all over the place, and be OUT for a few hours. But even getting out of bed and going to the refrigerator seems pointless and difficult.

I have the constant feeling that I'm not pulling my own weight. In fact, I feel I'm heavier than ever. Not physically, mind you, but emotionally. It seems everything is sort of dragging. My feet are dragging. My body is dragging. My words are dragging.

I spent last night cleaning the entire kitchen. It's pretty much spotless now. Not that it was horrific or anything... It's just that Norman seems so very responsible and organized, and I feel like I -- unemployed and in the throes of a mild depression -- contribute nothing to the household. I just want to do SOMETHING to prove I'm not just a waste of space here. If cleaning the kitchen is all I can do, I guess that's what I'll do.

I've borrowed money from everybody I know, except Aaron, who insisted I pay for his meal the other week. I've eaten food that everybody else has paid for. I've been "robbing Peter to pay Paul," so to speak. I feel HORRIBLE about this. I cannot tell you how much guilt I feel. I keep telling myself it's okay to call somebody up and say, "hey, want me to cook for you tonight if you buy the food?" It's NOT okay to me... I feel like I'm using people. I AM using people, and I have nothing to give back. Nothing. I can't pay back loans. I can't invite people over for dinner at my place because I have no food. I owe Chris a drink at the Belmar, but I can't buy it for him. I owe Norman and Will a couple packs of cigarettes apiece, but I can't buy them.

In Seattle, there's this homeless woman with a sign that says "Anything you can give, even a smile..." I'm not sure I even have a smile to give.

So I spent last night cleaning the kitchen.

I clean the kitchen when I'm feeling like a waste of good, useful human flesh. I clean the kitchen when I'm having thoughts like, "wouldn't it just be more beneficial for everybody if somebody could just skin me and make me into a rug or a jacket or something?" I clean the kitchen when I have nothing to give -- not a dollar, not a pack of cigarettes, not a smile...

And after all, what HAVE I got to give?

I've applied at every damned company in this town: retail, food-service, anything I'm even remotely qualified for. Let's face it: I don't LIKE most customers, and I'm not all that good at food service. I'm not qualified for much of anything, really.

I can type. I can write. I can argue. I can crochet. I can watch TV. I can -- evidently -- fix a broken fuse. None of those things are doing anybody any good. I'm not giving anything to this world. Might as well clean the fucking kitchen. At least then, Norman is less likely to contract salmonella if he decides, for some reason, to lick the counters... And that's useful, right? I'm not just taking up more than my alloted space and getting in the way of hard-working, multi-talented people. Right?

Whatever.

They say there's a recession. They say nobody can find any jobs. They say I shouldn't be taking it personally -- I just happen to be the first one going headfirst down the shithole, and it's not just me...

Fuck it. I just wish somebody would chop me up and turn me into a rug.

Resident waste of space,
~Helena*