The main thing that bothers me about being unemployed, besides the boredom, anxiety, monetary drain, self-pity and general pruning of any sense of self-worth, is the fact that I have no idea what day it is. I have no frame of reference. Word has it, some people in my predicament use television scheduling to maintain their clockworks. I, however, work in the reverse, and find myself wondering why my radio programs are not on this Saturday morning.
Everyday feels like Saturday. I am boggled when Tegan rises at 6 am, showers, wakes me further with coffee kisses to say goodbye...
Drunken voices, drunken parades, marching down the alley in front of the house, between the hemispheres of my brain. Shouts, exclamations, jubilation. Is it Saturday? Friday? What are you people doing, so rowdy and inebriated on a weekday? Is this.. a .. week... what day is it?
The early retreat of my better half signals school-night. Might be Sunday. But not Monday, because Tegan does not have class on Tuesdays....
Pride? Dignity? These are drown-able offenses.
Sinking in the bottle again.
Mohalo
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