The Money Pit

Tonight, I am listening to bluesy jazz (Charlie Parker, All The Things You Are), and listening to rain pound the window. I am writing from the money pit. It sucks down here. There's no funny Tom Hanks to make me laugh by falling down the stairs.

I have come face to face with my own dire and desperate straits. Each day that passes I am cognizant of the bills due, the bills on the way, and the lack of money in my pocket. It's either invent something brilliant in the next twenty seconds, win the lottery, or get a menial job and tread water until the first paycheck. Even as I submit my resume for six figure jobs, I'll be scrubbing floors somewhere soon. I can't believe it's come to this. The only thing worse that not having a job is having one like the one staring me in the face.

Oh well. Better hit the streets tomorrow, trolling for open positions. Thing is, down here in the land that time forgot, the open positions are the equivalent of sharecropper gigs. Needless to say I am highly resistant to letting my life turn into a remake of O Brother Where Art Thou?.