A rollercoaster in a downward spiral, a drilling tornado on the plains.

I should be doing something.
Or be somewhere, right now.
Dad told me I was becoming like my dad.
It sounded negative.
Job to job to job, he said.
He glanced at something, shaking his head before walking out.
Leaving to go fix my grandmother's shed roof.
On, which, he spent his own money.
But what am I to do?

I'm begging to work for someone.
To clean up fecal matter.
To apologetically repair someone else's mistakes.
To humbly serve the richer.
Just hire me, please.
I'll be the best servant you've ever had.
I won't complain.
I'll ask questions, but that will save you time later.
I won't ask them again, I promise.
Please, let me lick the filth off of your shoes.
They will shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.
Like Daddy Warbucks' titanium, ivory, gold-plated banisters.
Like the Monopoly Man's newest monocle, lovingly handcrafted by the smallest of endentured servant hands.
He is no Mr. Peanut.
That's me, because that's what I'm paid in.
I will never tell you that I am above the task at hand.
The grit will wish it had never existed, I assure you.
Even if it is inanimate, it will awaken only to curse itself.
Just, please, for the love of God, hire me.

I overdrafted my bank account.
It was a negative three and seven.
$3.07 that could have become $20, $40, $60+
Had mom not caught it.
I asked her to check it three days ago, though.
Oh well, I said.
I cried in the shower.
I told myself to stay calm.
Positive.
I told myself these were black days.
I hummed it to myself.
But it can't rain all the time.
I cried into my watery arm and only felt stereotypical and washed up.
I feel like I have everything and nothing to say right now.

I attended a poetry reading and found an old acquaintance had found Jesus.
And wanted us to find him, also.
And we listened for an hour as he told us about his life.
And all the horrible things that had recently happened.
And all the great timing that surrounded his discovery of religion and spirituality.
Great timing saved him from mourning his mother, staying in a relationship with his fiance, fretting over her discovery of cancer shortly thereafter, and the miscarriage of his previously undiscovered child.
"I met someone new in my prayer group," he beamed.
"I sing the song of myself," I thought.
And thought of the golden-haired angel being cast out of the heavens and given a new name.
The same old self-serving, self-advertising man.
But with the new taste of "calling" and "devoted lifestyle."
A friend said that friend was dead.
I calmly agreed.

I feel more dead than alive, but nothing will send me back to Jesus other than massive bodily harm.
Which I don't anticipate.

Now I'm going to play Clue with my sister and forget feeling so frustrated for a minute.

I have an interview tomorrow. I have a good shot at winning a contest. Fingers crossed. Eyes open. Held breath.