There's only so much a girl can take.

How many times do I get to say that before I really lose it? I wonder.

I was promised to start a temporary position Monday, as in 2 business days from now. I even practiced the bus with Liz today! I walked around my giant downtown building in preparation for Monday morning, when I would finally be bringing in a happy little thing called a paycheck. I even took myself out for a couple of glasses of wine last night and listened to Tony and Dave play a stellar piano/acoustic duo. I even wrote down fragments in a little notebook, accepting myself into this life where I ride the bus and really don't like my job but put up with it because I have no other options. I was all ready to be a different kind of miserable.

And, well, I still get that. But not for another week. I was all ready to write a post called: Well, unemployment, it's been fun but Pro Staff just called me to let me know that I don't get to start until next week, meaning the 19th, meaning a 3-day week. And then a full week, and then November is fucking over.

Guess how much I want to stay at home next week. Guess. Not at fucking all. I'm still running out of money, I get very little hours at the bookstore, and if I do take hours at the bookstore, it compromises my chances of getting a one-day-temp day of work, which Pro Staff has agreed to look for really hard when it came to getting me work next week. Yes. I bet they will, oh I just bet they will.

Why.

I'm sitting in the green chair, and I've been whining to a very understanding Liz--oh, what the hell would I do without her? Well, I'd get lost downtown after taking the wrong bus, I'd be ever so lonely, I'd burn pumpkin bread in the oven--who has agreed that it's really a blessing in disguise. Maybe I'll get that killer interview next week and not have to tell work I "can't come in for part of the day" during my first week. Maybe I'll write something amazing and it will get published, like, the next day. Maybe I'll have time to apply for that job I wouldn't have found otherwise.

Or maybe I'm just getting fucking fucked over again. Maybe this shit never ends, and this is what fucking life is. Broken promises, waiting for something you don't even fucking really want but have no choice to take. Like, when I'm single and alone at 40, waiting all my life for a hint of a relationship, and having to settle for a guy who wears black briefs because you don't have to wash them as much because they don't look dirty.

Someone please kill me now.