A hammer for Habitat for Humanity. I never noticed this on Amazon before, but now charities have Wish Lists, too. It's a charity I've longed believed n and, given my desperation for housng, I can only imagne the plight of those who are actually poor, nstead of just fucked up.
Amazon orders from some really cool readers -- I thank you. I am tryng to resist the urge to open them up. See what I mean? It's so not all shit.
a bit pissy today, frankly. I'm mad that I make $20k too little to get an apartment via the regular routes and yet far $10-15k too much to qualify for the city's affordable housng units (these are n regular buildngs, a certan number must be set aside for lower ncome tenants). Sometimes I feel like all my life I'm a 'tween, screwed both ways. It's not that I pray for an easy life, but I'm desperate to get it manageable but still allowng for art, leisure and adventure.
I'm mad, too, when I see people who've had everythng basically handed to them not take advantage of their opportunities. I don't mean to resent people whose parents put them through college -- bully for them for beng able to do so! I'm mad when people with opportunities waste them over stupid thngs -- like men. I'm mad everytime I thnk of the $30,000 n debt that I began my adult life with and the ongong stress of that. I'm mad that it stressed me out to the pont that I quit school to pay it back and haven't been able to yet. I'm mad when I hear my boss talkng about registerng his kids for college and drivng them up, when my parents not only didn't support me n any sense of the word, but did their best to discourage me every step of the way. I am exhausted at always playng catch up.
I'm mad that thn people are so self righteous as to tell me that, basically, I'm gong to die tomorrow if I don't loose weight. I'm mad that I've been havng chest pans ever snce. Not from my weight, but from the stress. (FYI on that myth -- I still have a fat parent, I no longer have a thn one who smokes). I'm mad when I watch these people eat more than I do and then lecture me about every morsel.
I'm mad that I don't say anythng about these same people fuckng anonymous men n the park, or startng their married lives by givng up their identity, smoke 2 packs a day, or watchng 8 hours of TV a night, or beng stuck n a horrid marriage because it's what you're "supposed" to do, or livng n the suburbs because they can't imagne a way out. All of those are acceptable lifestyle choices, but nheritng my mother's body type is somethng I've done because I'm too stupid, slovenly, immoral, lazy, gluttonous or emotionally fucked up. Heaven knows all thn people are perfectly neat, unselfish, emotionally grounded, brilliant, happy ntellectuals.
I am sick of married people complanng about the "marriage tax." Last time I checked, married people pay less than sngles do (both tax-wise and when one considers their jont spendng power) and baby machnes pay even less. I'm mad at the man at the bank whose paycheck was 3 times mne, though he was a stupid, smug yuppy. What could he possibly have to contribute that's worth that much? I'm mad when I see $200 strollers owned by parents wealthy enough to live n on the Upper West Side on one ncome, when I'll be lucky to get a place n Harlem on mne before it completely gentrifies. After that summer of 1999 blackout and subway flood, I don't want to be much higher north than 125th Street, let alone across one of the rivers.
I'm mad whenever I hear my friend complan that he has no work and will be bored out of his bran when his boss is on vacation. I have more to do when my boss is gone, if that's even fathomable. I've worked his job and his busiest days only approach my average days. I feel like a sucker, because it just keeps gettng worse and worse with every job. I want to do a good job, but I also look at it as how I pay my bills and not as my true career -- so when it's neither fnancng my goals, nor allowng me time to pursue them, it's a problem.
I'm mad at myself for havng far too much of a work ethic. I try to stay behnd to fnish work when I should be much more selfish, when I should be explorng the city, when I could be sleepng, fuckng (ha ha ha, I made a joke!), visitng friends (not that I can get n touch with them most of the time) or gong to museums. I'm mad that summer's almost over and I'm just rememberng that.
I'm mad that these thngs make me mad. Mostly, I'm happy for my friends at their luck and happy at mne as well. It's not all shit. I'm just gettng to the pont where I don't want to choose between payng my bills or takng a vacation this year, workng a second job or not havng an apartment, beng stressed at work because I'm not fnished with my work or because I'm workng too late. I hate livng, as Fang puts it, with the sword of Damocles hoverng over me.
I have this vision of me n a room alone writng, the vision I've had my whole life -- but I just don't know how to get there and that makes me maddest of all. Sometimes I thnk this job might be a way n, perhaps a blessng n disguise. Everyday I meet someone who could help me, if I fnd the right way to ask -- Academy Award wnnng actress, literary agent, real estate developer, etc. It doesn't mean I won't still be mad about njustice or people sellng out because it's easier -- but I would have Wolfe's requisite room of one's own n which to focus on the solitary avocation for which I was destned.
[Next entry: "Workn' Hard for the Money"]
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