Tuesday, October 4, 2016

3 Days Into (semi)Unemployment, and Something About the #96 :

Technically, I’m not unemployed.

Technically I work for my father’s Bay Area company.

Although for exactly 96 hours now, I have officially become a Los Angeles resident, and when asked where I work, I explain how I have the magical ability to download my father’s computer to mine and do work for him via that method, which just receives a mixture of I-Don’t-Cares and confusion from my semi-listener. As if freelance (?) work is the illegitimate child of employment. No – as if a freelance job for one’s own parent is the illegitimate love child* of employment. Because, you know, supposedly working for one’s parent automatically comes with less effort?

ANYWAY – for exactly 96 hours now, I’ve had ample opportunity to explain my state of unemployment. In efforts to avoid the illegitimate love child of employment, I usually just say that I am unemployed. I feel like living in a big, expensive city and claiming unemployment is an excellent way to get a sliver of sympathy. This might work for another couple 96 hour periods, but certainly not once the whole I’m new to LA thing wears off.

For the time being, while claiming newness is still acceptable, I say 96 hours because it sounds like much less time than 4 days. It sounds like I still have time to be scared shitless. To not have my ducks in a row, or something like that.

Also, it just sounds nicer, you know?

Sort of like those annoying mothers who, when asked about the age of their ginormous infant reply with, “22 months.” Or—worse—“25 months.” 26? 27? 30 – perhaps? Because a child's age in months sounds less threatening or terrifying than saying 2 years old -- because who hasn't at some point in time been terrified of a toddler.

Right? Right.

96 has rounder numbers that lean against one another comfortably. 4 is just stagnant and unwelcomed in the mouth. Especially within the mouth of a semi-homesick, semi-unemployed (kid) young adult who wishes she could skip ahead four years from now.

But, damn. She can’t do that. No.

Not only is traveling forward in time impossible (hello, where have you been?), but even if such a thing were an option, by going forward in time, she’d be going against the very thing she reprimanded herself for 96 hours ago: rushing the four years of university because (for some reason?) adulthood seemed way more comfortable! Irony, folks, sweet irony.

So, there will be no skipping forward four years. Which, by the way, doesn’t the 4 sound so much better in reference to rushing through time? Maybe that’s just me.

This was the third day I’ve woken up in Los Angeles and with each morning I’m even more shocked that I’m still here.

It’s as if I expected this move to kill me right from the get go – which is such a pleasant thought when you’re 96% alone in this. (Each of my roommates makes up a 1% that I am not alone, and the other 1% is earned by my parents who allow me to call them multiple times per day).

So, each morning I’ve awoken, semi-startled by my continued existence. And each night I blissfully climb into bed with heaps of relief that I did another day! Even if the day only consisted of that freelance love child called work and unpacking my disgustingly cluttered room.

Positivity, people. I’m trying to stick to positivity! And, right now that means clinging to any 96% I can get.


*don't even know if I'm using that term the correct way, but it's what came to mind

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