Lately, everyday I wake up reborn but knowing that at some point dredge, fear, and trauma will soon enter my consciousness - and then my flesh though some hormonal diffusion. Then I will have to go running to stop the mental anguish. I have gone without fundamentally satisfying work since my 2007 diagnosis. I am in a 'job search' now - which is such an unpleasant fabrication. To have a real job search - a job search that occurs in some real timeline in some real plane of existence, you need to have real job posting where someone actually reads your application. And then you need people that actually have time to consider your candidacy outside of some facile and prejudicially discriminatory review of my CV. I am incredulous on both points. I am 46; I worked in retail for over 5 years. I might as well be dead. I feel awful saying that to my retail brethren and sistren but that is point of no regrets writing - you have to unleash the pain. As Hemingway put it: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
And if I am dead, I might as well celebrate my life. And I might as well have no regrets - nothing holding me back from giving everything a chance with reckless abandon. In other words, I am going to have to write my way out of poverty. As KG says in Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny from 2006: "Keep at it, you never know when you'll need to fuck your way out of a tight situation." Or alternatively, as Mark Taylor Jackson puts in Funny People from 2009: "Don't put me in this position where I have to fuck my way out of a corner!" To have to laugh to keep from crying.