[Age 22-23] The Great Recession

Soley – Pretty Face.

With Granny dead, and myself having neither income nor savings, my options were few. Some relatives came for the funeral, and without my inquiry, offered for me to stay with them. Their terms were simple: accompany them to church every Sunday, and be home every day for dinner. I accepted, though looking back, I should not have.

Prior to their asking, I had planned to move to Mexico, to work on a internet friend’s ranch – an old soldier whom I shared the poetry forum with. I barely knew him, but looking back on the last 8 years, I should have went to Mexico: a rugged life would have easily beaten the last 8 years of wasting my time among the hedonists that dominate the first-world. But I was naive then; still thinking good people were common.

So I moved to Hillsboro, Oregon, with my Great Aunt and Uncle. The woman was my blood relative, and she was quietly insane. The man and I got along very well: we would often smoke while discussing the worlds problems; he educated me on a wide variety of practical mechanical skills while we worked on his house and talked in general; we collaborated to keep my Aunt off our backs.

Both he and my Aunt were some form of Christianity; I never bothered to find out, despite going to their church, every Sunday, for 6 months. It was tedious, inane, and teeming with the typically superficial and mindless cultists religious. They often tried interacting with me, and I politely shooed them away. I scheduled a discussion with the priest, at his request, which seemed to trigger my Aunt telling me I no longer had to go to Church.

That aside, I started looking for work immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately, Oregon was, supposedly, the second-worst in the nation for unemployment; and spending 5 years hiding from the world while chain-smoking granted me a lovely pallor – along with a massive gap in my work-history. The few interviews I did get, out of hundreds of applications I put out, were for fastfood – they, wisely, rejected me.

Disheartened after a.. month or two of nothing but applying, and a week or two sitting around at day-labor sites getting no where, it occurred to me to volunteer. Doing so would solve a variety of my problems: I would acquire experience, skills, references, current work-history, and proof of my desire to work – all of which I lacked. In total, I acquired somewhere around 2000 hours of volunteering hours, over the course of 1 & 1/2 years.

Not having paying work was exceedingly stressful and infuriating, and only got worse as time went on: I was building houses, managing teams of volunteers, driving company vehicles with upwards of 10,000 dollars cash while alone, etc, etc, all for free. Yet I couldn’t find work, because the people reviewing my applications were imbeciles. Amusingly, I would later overhear that two of the people whom got jobs over me, in jobs I interviewed for, quit or were fired.

Thankfully, Granny had left me 12,000 dollars, to be inherited on her passing; I didn’t know about it until it came a few months after the move. With that money, I was able to pay my Great Aunt and Uncle for the room and board; I also did plenty of work around the place, and served as a buffer between them [their relationship was taxed, as she was insane]. Still, even with that money, I was always stressed and infuriated with my situation.

I’ve outlined the major components of that time volunteering in a separate post. Aside from the constant stress and shame of not having work, and dealing with my psychotic Aunt, it was a pleasant time of my life. I walked, bused, and light-railed around the area while listening primarily to Tom Waits on my Ipod Shuffle. My uncle and I did plenty of work building, gardening, cooking, etc. I also had a neighbor friend.

A 500 pound, Christian, dead-beat father of 3 young girls, and pathological liar. He and his psychotic wife would advertise for carpet-cleaning and property-cleaning on Craigslist, offering dirt-cheap prices for bad work; I worked with them, and made a little money here and there – though they, collectively, now owe me 1,000 dollars. “Fatty,” as we’ll call him, was highly entertaining: both due to our interactions, and his rampaging incompetence constantly getting us into hilarious situations.

He was an interesting mixture of strong and weak: a man of base impulses and high ideals; his twin brother was an enforcer for a major prison gang – he was murdered almost immediately after release. Fatty couldn’t care for his family, he could barely care for himself, but he dreamed of more. For whatever reason, he was one of the few people whom I could interact with as I prefer.

I said seemingly horrible and cruel things to him, loudly and demeaningly. He constantly fucked up, and tried to lie about it; I did not allow him to do so. But unlike the sheltered, whom do not understand mature socializing, he understood my purpose: I demeaned him when he deserved it, and only to discourage his unproductive behavior – out of concern for him and his family.

And so, when I pointed out that he was a disgusting, stinking, gasping fat-fuck that was constantly in my way and ruining his family’s life, when I dismissingly called his deity a “magic man in the sky,” he would laugh a hearty laugh, and make fun of me in return. He was a man of very low character, but I’d choose his company, in his filthy home, over most first-worlds – for the simple reason that he could acknowledge, happily, his own faults.

So, for a year and a half or so, I volunteered nearly fulltime, hung out my Uncle, with Fatty and his wife, used public transport to get all over, and got turned down for jobs I desperately needed by a wide variety of imbeciles. I also continued distracting myself while running from my internal issues, but they were mostly resolved; had I ever found a good woman and job, I would have likely resolved them long ago.

But, instead of peace, I found new issues. Specifically, the depth of humanity’s depravity, the isolation my decency forces upon me, and the extreme depression they both caused, triggered when my heart was broken by a FTM. Ridiculous, fucking ridiculous. What boring lives sheltered people must live.

Autobiography [+] Hub



~ by Louis Naughtic on December 27, 2016.

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