i believe i can touch the sky

Week Five of my unemployment is rapidly coming to a close. During these five weeks I have successfully gained a few unnecessary pounds, overdrawn my overdraw protection on my checking account, and gotten a surprisingly painful tetanus shot. I've also been so emotionally volatile that I almost cried when Harold and Kumar finally made it to White Castle. And that's my life right now, in a nutshell. Go me. But all is not bad.

Last week, after spending my laundry quarters on Coors Light, I decided to do what any respectable almost-24-year-old would do and called my dad sobbing and begging for money. Very lucky for me, he amended his "you're cut off after we finish paying for your ridiculously expensive college" plan and sent me enough money to survive this month, provided I BmyOB and don't go to Burritoville too many times. Thank you thank you thank you, Dad. And for the record, if I ever again give half a shit about getting laid or finding a boyfriend-like thing, I will have a new "most humbling moment" on my Nerve profile (though I do like the ol' "Getting paid $10 an hour to walk a dog that lived on the top floor of the Carlyle Hotel and ate steak for dinner via room service.")

I've been receiving some non-financial support as well, in the form of my equally unemployed and almost as destitute friend D (FAB's former roomie.) He has just returned from several months on an organic farm in Costa Rica and is crashing at my place until he gets his shit together or we start hating each other, whichever comes first. So far things have been good, as D's dragged my lazy ass out of the house to events such as the obligatory Fourth of July Brooklyn roof party, introduced me to the relaxing wonders of smoking Costa Rican passion fruit leaves, and demanded that I clean my apartment (and by "that I clean my apartment" I mean "that I swing some wet paper towels around the bathroom while D cleans my apartment.") D's also made me feel a little better about my past shopping extravagance, as he picked up a pair of awesome and socially conscious jeans at Barney's, decided to "just try them on," and then bought them after 30 minutes of the whole "but I don't NEED them, but they're so NICE, but I'm unemployed, but they're ON SALE" song and dance. Thank you thank you thank you, D. (And they do really look good.)

So now I've got about two to three weeks to figure out how to support myself in the city without going insane or else, well, there'd better not be an or else this time. It's crazy that in just five weeks my initial plan of waitressing at night and volunteering and taking classes during the day in the hopes of getting into grad school for psychology has been completely and utterly dismissed. Since college I've been whining and whining and whining some more about how I don't have a hobby or passion or creative interest and will never find my place in adult society, and then the other day I thought to myself, "oh wait, I don't totally suck at writing, and it makes me happy, and some people get paid to write stuff...Gina, you're a genius." Most significantly of all, this whole writing plan, if executed correctly, could result in my being boss, office, and business casual free at some point in the very distant future. That vision alone is enough to keep the dream alive. But for now, it's off to the temp agency to get myself a position in the administrative assisting arts. And a nice big Ritalin prescription.