Making Moves

Two days ago, I was out having a smoke when I came to the conclusion that I had nothing left that I could do. The job interviews I had had were really good ones. Really good. I answered the questions like a pro. I did everything that I could possibly do to get the job, but never did. Shit, I was applying for jobs designed for fucking monkeys off the street, and still got rejected.

It was like a brick hitting me. I could do no better than what I had already done, and I was still in the same place, smoking in someone’s back yard listening to the snow plows. Realizing that I couldn’t do it anymore got me really really scared.

Instead of laying myself on the nearest train track, I asked for help.

I went to the doctor today. I was pretty nervous. I had a cheat sheet of stuff I wanted to say in my pocket, which I kept glancing at in the waiting room. It was pretty nerve racking sitting there with the other sick people. Most of my fellow waiting room members were mostly old people with more simple things to treat. What’s that note say on the wall? What? I have to pay 20 dollars for a doctor’s note? But, I’ve only got 6 in my bank account. Shit. What am I going to do? If he prescribes me anything, I won’t be able to afford it. This woman going in now is walking really slowly and carefully. I bet it’s some kind of leg or hip problem she’s got. Pain killers for her and she’ll be on her way. What is he going to ask me? Have I memorized my notes enough? Everyone here has normal problems. What’s he going to think of me and my dirty brain? This guy doesn’t even know me. How can he know what I need so quickly? What about this guy sitting in the corner? He’s reading some kind of pamphlet with a symbol for the men’s room on it and there are diagrams of the male reproductive system as well. I wonder, does he have problems with his penis? Maybe he had a gay discreet encounter at a shady bar with a guy named Mike and wants to get tested for the fag virus? Shit, he’s just a normal doctor, dealing with people with hemorrhoids and unruly bowels and hip problems, why would he be concerned about my sob story of sadness and woe? Shit, why am I here?

He didn’t care, as I knew he wouldn’t, but he did refer me to someone else that is paid to give a shit. We shall see.

2005 sure is an interesting year indeed.