The best thing about being officially unemployed with a big savings account from years of working secure jobs and living conservatively is, well, everything.
Except for watching that account get smaller and smaller. But hey, for now, there's money.
So, you can go to a very long lunch at the Mexican restaurant just a bit from your office. You can realize how incredibly fat everyone there is. Disgustingly fat. You can contemplate how they smell -- everywhere. How they aren't fucking anybody with those bodies, just fucking their faces with nachos.
How you are fucking your face with nachos, too. But you're thin. Your BMI and just any plain observer would say so.
Maybe one day, if this keeps up, you will be a fat Mexican restaurant goer, too. And you'll go with other fat people because you will all be fucking your faces with food because you can't fuck each other so there's no pressure.
But, while you're thin, you go alone. Because you don't have a job and who wants to fuck a good-looking dude with no job? And if you go with someone who has a job, they have to get back to work and they can't drink two margaritas at lunchtime.
For the record, I only drank diet coke on this day. I'm not ready to be fat and un-fuckable -- yet.
So, you can watch the fat people. And you can marvel at the delightfully thin, well-proportioned businesswoman who clearly has a job and who, of course, walks past the Mexican place but doesn't eat there.
And you can ponder the ads for the nail salon - the ads featuring painted toes. And you can wonder why the toes and feet aren't really that pretty. I mean, couldn't they have gotten women with prettier feet to be the feet models for their ads? And then you can further marvel at the woman who is 50 and has big hair and is wearing sandals of some kind and has a giant bunion and her toes aren't painted and you can think that this is some huge miscarriage of justice.
And you can wear your suit and tie to "work" so you can feel professional and then you can take the tie off in the morning and jack off at your desk because no one will be coming in and because touching your dick feels good and because you can't do it with an actual person because they will find out you don't have a job and then feel like shit for fucking you and your mostly average dick that doesn't really stay hard anymore because you don't have a job so your confidence is waning even though you look damn good in your tailored suit and silk tie and soon you won't be able to buy new ties or shirts to go with the nice suits you own and you can keep wearing the suits to the office and they will wear out and then you won't be able to buy more but for now you look damn good and people check you out but you can't even get aroused unless you are alone and you are alone a lot because you are trying to be a writer or some god damn thing and you think that if you finish eating Mexican food with fat people you can walk back to your office and sit at your laptop -- the one you bought when you lost the secure job you had - and you can type a bunch of crap and people will read it and like it and then pay you or offer a book deal which never happens because no one reads a blog with 15 posts and then tells the blogger they can have a book deal and now you are wondering when this tremendously long run-on sentence may end - or, it may not -- and you contemplate Bartleby Scrivner and you're not even sure you spelled it right and you would prefer not to pretend anymore about the job thing and you really want to be doing readings of your new book that currently is just 10,000 words on your computer in some file and well, that's all for this.
And so you do write. And you blog. And you check your stats and discover you are getting some clicks and making some cash just by sitting there or writing snarky posts that people may even laught at.
So, yeah, it is pretty good to be unemployed and think about the big shit you took yesterday or the ulcer you may be getting from worrying but trying to not appear too worried because you don't want anyone to know but maybe if you told them they'd help you get a job but probably not because they know you and so they know why you don't have a job and why you lost the one before that.
Plus, you keep wearing suits and going to the office, so things seem fine. But if they didn't, they'd definitely not help you because who hires some unemployed, depressed bastard who needs to work real bad? No fucking one, that's who.
And so it wears on you but you've just had a big Mexican meal with fat people and taken some medicine for your seasonal allergies and you are craving a nap but afraid to take one because what if you oversleep and then miss your appointment to volunteer - that's right, you don't have a job but you fucking volunteer every week for no good reason but you do like the work but they don't know you're unemployed and so actually worse off than the people you are helping but then you do have that savings account and so despite the fact it is dwindling you feel ok and can put on a good face and all that.
Fat people. Mexican food. Playing around with your dick at your desk. That's why it is good to be unemployed but with some cash.
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