All Things Profane and Sacred

Well, I got the rejection letter I was waiting for in the mail yesterday. Y'know, I'm getting to the point where I'm scared to death to come home-I'm afraid I'll get there only to find a smoking hole in the ground where the house used to be. It's been a month of disaster-2 more rejection letters to put on the wall, a good fucking by one of my student loan companies, a deep wall of inpenatratable debt and steadily declining credit, no job prospects of any sort, a 'burglary' that called me home from work only to find cops in my basement, constant collection threats, car trouble of both the legal and mechanical stripe, and a million other small things that I can't think about right now because my kindly mind (and just maybe a goodly dose of alcohol) has blocked them from my memory. How long, oh lord?

I know this is totally crazy, but it's my blog and I'll be crazy if I want to (and these days I'm feeling pretty crazed-I'll probably end up wandering around downtown, homeless, in a suit, begging for change). After every job interview, I tell myself not to get my hopes up, that until I hear word, I must assume the worst. But usually during the course of the interview, I start really liking the people and feeling like it is the sort of job that I would like to have and picturing the way I would do things and how I would fit in the office. As much as I try to smother that hope, it's still there lurking.

And when I get the inevitable rejection letter, I feel like they were laughing behind my back the whole time. That they were smiling and nodding encouragingly the whole time, and, after I left, they all pushed back their chairs, looked at each other and had a good laugh over what a bozo I am, and how I must have gotten my degree from a mail order catalogue and how they need a better screening system. I almost feel these days like poverty is in my genes, that the 'better class of people' can see through the cheap suits I wear that are getting more threadbare by the day and see the desparate scramble in my eyes, the debt and foodstamps and unpaid bills.