Still here

See, the problem with no holds barred blogging is that as soon as you start to gripe about something, 24 hours go by and it turns out to be nothing at all, so you look like a dumbass. So if I put up a post that says things are drop dead awful, and I’m not posting until Sunday, then things straighten themselves out so I COULD have posted Sunday.

If I wasn’t so tired.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, last week sucked on a variety of fronts. And the thought did hit me in the midst of the maelstrom that You know what? Life hasn’t been too peachy since you lost your job in August. You’ve been struggling for eight months now.

Even writing that sentence sags me down. Eight months. My God. I’ve been fighting for eight months to find a better job, to find a permanent job, to find a job I like. I’ve been fighting to write a script, to rewrite a script, to write a better script, one that I like (harder that it sounds, I don’t like a lot of the stuff I write.) I’ve been trying to change my life, to live a better life, to live a life I like.

Something has GOT to change, in the form of movement on the script, or a call about a job interview, something has to start to go right, it just HAS to. And maybe this is all eight months of laying groundwork, and a faboo opportunity is just around the corner, and won’t we all laugh about this a month from now.

I’ve never temped this long before. I’ve never had to, as God’s providence has funneled me into permanent jobs from temp agency placements from day one. There’s none of that here. I wonder what God’s trying to do here.

See, already I’m bumming myself out. I’ve been trying to be upbeat, to squash the nasty gnats of negativity. Trying to cheer myself up in unusual ways, such as singing “Possession” to Baby Hazel at Thursday night’s Small Group. The Duran Duran medley didn’t do it. Every Breath You Take didn’t do it. The Sarah McLachlan medley did it, put her right out. And I found a special perverse joy in singing these lyrics to her:

and I would be the one
to hold you down
kiss you so hard
I'll take your breath away
and after, I'd wipe away the tears
just close your eyes dear

This is gonna be one messed up kid when she grows up, and I can say I did my part, ha ha ha.

I’ve been reading Jane Espenson’s blog , and even though she talks mainly TV writing, I find it helpful when she talks about the different ways you can set up a joke. Jane is so cheery and positive, and reports what she’s had for lunch that day cradled in adjectives like Zing! Delish! Magnificent! I find myself wanting to be cheery and positive like her. She, of course, has the benefit of writing for Buffy The Vampire Slayer for five years. I’d be positive too if I just struck a new two year deal with a network. Wonder what she would’ve blogged about in the days before her career took off. Would she have been as worried as I worry I sound like now? (yeah, read that sentence again. I swear it makes sense.)

To try and quell the internal demons that have been throwing a kegger inside me Everybody in! We’re doing shots! I’ve tried to think Happy Religious Thoughts, about how God/Jesus is with me every step of the way. Literally, every step of the way as I make my way through this Dilbert environment of cubicles, Xerox machines, Sanjaya jokes on the kitchen whiteboard and powdered Crystal Delight. It’s not going so good, because I keep getting tripped up on Jesus in a New Testament robe, and wouldn’t He get a lot of stares from people and would He wait outside the bathroom for me, or if He’s with me everywhere, does He avert His gaze if He does come into the bathroom with me, because the bathroom’s where I’ve been having a lot of crying fits these days…

So I settled on angels. Angels surrounding me. C’mon, everyone likes angels. Even people who say they don’t believe in Jesus love the idea of angels. Everyone digs the whole Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest Shakespeare quote.

So I have been actively concentrating and dreaming up flights of angels surrounding me. Supporting me, cradling me in their fluffy wings. They’re guy angels, of course, so I can rest against their chiseled chests, and occasionally they’ll smooth back my hair. And though they’re angels, they’re not wearing white, because no guy looks good in white. They’re wearing muted earth tones, and they all look damn hot. They watch me as I type, but they don’t give editorial opinions, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re shooting each other know-it-all glances about what I’m writing.

I wouldn’t ask them to help me. They’re not God, and God’s the only one who can help me (and I’m sure He will, any day now, would love for it to be sooner, not later.) They’re kinda like my bodyguards, so I’m not walking alone these days. They hover protectively around me when I’m taking pictures like this one down at the Santa Monica beach today, and shield me from the bums (including the one who told me “God must’ve spent an extra fifteen minutes on you when he created you.” And no, don't even try to make the sappy parallel that the bum was an angel in disguise, because he still asked me for money.), the Boot Camp runners, and other assorted conventioneers. It may seem silly. But whatever gets me through the day, and right now, it’s them.

So to sum up: last week sucked, but I’m still alive, and my imaginary angels are hotter than yours. Onward.