This month spent sitting in a dank little office and answering phones. I’m selling luxury gifts to people with more money than brains. Big gifts too that mean people also have big homes to store them in. It’s so comical that I’m making meals out of the food in the gift baskets that vendors have sent in as thanks for hawking their expensive wares while I’m pulling in just enough money talking on the phone and helping in the warehouse to keep a heated home. The budget allows food for home but I’ve been too depressed to eat there. Knowing it’s such a temporary residence is difficult, and seeing all this money spent on trivial gifts while there are people like me wondering what they already own that can be recycled into gifts is hard.

One of my definitions of adulthood has always involved, in part, being self-sufficient. To be able to take care of yourself. I’ve allowed exceptions for people with disabilities and things like that, but I’m a smart person who has a reasonable physical facility for doing things. I should be self-sufficient and as I’m nearly not I’m quite hard on myself. Other people have jobs, they eat regularly and they’re not worried about being homeless whereas I’m often too broke for food, frequently not working and actively anticipating living on the streets.

Merry Christmas indeed.

(This entry written retroactively.)

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