11:00
Well, another week, another paycheck, another 30% for taxes, another 20% for rent, another 20% for health insurance, another 25% for utilities, food, and student loan payments.
Actually, I just managed to lower my health insurance payments by $200 dollars. We can certainly file that under “F” for “Fuck YEA!”
It all started several months ago when I became my own independent graphic design firm. Without an employer to provide my health insurance I was forced to sign on for COBRA. COBRA is a sort of extension plan where you can continue using the health coverage through the workplace of a parent of guardian by paying the full monthly price. I won’t tell you exactly how much I was paying, but suffice it to say I was getting a monthly rectal exam without actually having to go to the doctor.
After making my payment for August I received a letter stating that the price was going up and I still had to pay the remainder for the month. I felt as though I had just donated two testicles and was being asked for a third. This was the final straw. I decided to explore my options through the National Association of the Self-Employed and managed to find a pretty comprehensive health plan for TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS LESS than what I was paying. I called up COBRA and instructed them to tell Cobra Commander to roll up my policy and smoke it because I’m bailing out and I want my money for August back.
It’s little moments of triumph like that that keep me going.
12:30
Addendum – Several minutes after publishing the above entry I was struck down with severe abdominal pain. I actually doubled over on the floor.
I called my mother, the nurse, and asked for her diagnosis. The obvious analysis was gas, but after two “Gas Aid” pills and several Tums the problem persisted. She reccomended that if the pain did not dissapate I should go to Urgent Care at the hospital down the road. My insides were on fire so I had no problem with this idea. Then I realized I had no insurance. Technically, my COBRA was never paid for August and my new insurance didn’t take effect until September 1st, just over 24 hours from now. I had managed to remain perfectly healthy for the thirty days I was uninsured. Tonight, on the eve of the 31st, the last day, I got sick. I laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. There is a God, and he fucking hates me.
45 agonizing minutes later it turned out to be gas. Possibly an adverse reaction to the pills the doctor had reccomended to me in order to, guess what, eliminate gas.
I'm still laughing.
8/30/2003
8/23/2003
Well, Library Girl has disappeared. I guess this was just her summer job. My attempts to strike up a conversation with her had failed by either bad timing or my own self doubt. Now she was gone, off to some school to study some subject she could fall back on if her career as an international supermodel fell through. Heartbroken and lonley, I started crusing the online personals. The following is a real chat transcript that resulted from the one and only reply I've ever gotten from responding to a personal ad. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
(radioactiveegg03):Hi, I'm Jonathan and I'm housebroken
(female chat person): oh Hi hon
(radioactiveegg03):I just sent the sincere response to
your personal
(female chat person): good to see ya
(female chat person): very sweet I appreciate it very much
(radioactiveegg03):I was smitten by your profile. Is smitten
still a useable word?
(radioactiveegg03):smitten sounds like something my parents
would say
(female chat person): I use it lots
(female chat person): lol
(radioactiveegg03):then smitten it is<
(MISC. SMALL TALK)
(female chat person): I'm starting school next month
(female chat person): again
(radioactiveegg03):ah, what are you studying?
(female chat person): massage
(radioactiveegg03):excellent
(radioactiveegg03):So why did you say "Again?"
(female chat person): I went to film school
(radioactiveegg03):now that's very cool!
(radioactiveegg03):I'm more of a film watcher myself, but I love the whole process
(radioactiveegg03):;-)
(female chat person): I am too it seems
(radioactiveegg03):I was often an extra in my friends'
student films. I have such illustrious credits as "Guy at Table #2," and "Guy
that Falls Down"
(female chat person): but I know what it takes to make the major movies
(female chat person): hehehe cool
(female chat person): You cute?
(female chat person): sorry bad question
(radioactiveegg03):No, it's a legitimate one. Wasn't my
picture on my profile?
(female chat person): it wasn't
(radioactiveegg03):hmm. I guess this is the deal breaker
then. One sec, I'll get a link to another one
(female chat person): hehehe
(female chat person): dealbraeker?
(female chat person): breaker
(radioactiveegg03):well, I'm not hideous, but I'm under
the impression that I'm not HOT. I'm cute, I think
(radioactiveegg03):I'm bad at describing myself physically
(female chat person): you very thin?
(female chat person): I'm a big girl
(radioactiveegg03):I'm thin.
(radioactiveegg03):let me know if this works (LINK TO PHOTO*****)
(female chat person): Oh
(female chat person): you have a puppy look to you
(female chat person): I'd break you hon
(radioactiveegg03):oh
(radioactiveegg03):sorry
(female chat person): Thank you so much for chatting you seem real sweet. :)
(radioactiveegg03):thanks
(female chat person): no prob
(female chat person): anytime
(And then she signed off)
8/19/2003
My Car is Being Held Together by The Force
I’m really bothered by the noises my van is making. It creaks, it rattles, it taps. It’s like I’m driving a fucking haunted house. Despite all this, the “mechanics,” can’t find anything “wrong,” with it. This, however, does not keep them from sending me the “bill.”
To the credit of the van, it’s over 12 years old. I think I was still in grade school when I came home to find this new, marvelous vehicle in our driveway. It had all the high tech luxuries of the time, such as air conditioning and a tape player. We’re talking top of the line.
I remember looking at the interior and part of me, a dark part deep below my puberty, wondered what it would be like to have sex in the back seat. Today I look at the back seat and wonder what it would be like to have sex in my own bed.
Just recently the speedometer reached 120,000 miles. For most cars this marks the “cinderblock,” anniversary. Not my van though. My dad kept it in great shape and it came to me in perfect running order. It took me a whole year to properly fuck it up.
Anyway, when the car reached 120,000, the dashboard lit up. I was just driving along and all the sudden I’m celebrating Christmas in my car. Most of the lights went off again, except for the hated “Maint Req’d” light, signaling that it was time for a mechanic to replace your belts with cling wrap and urinate in your gas tank.
I brought it in for a plain and simple tune-up. They decided I wanted to spring for all the extras. While I wanted to argue that I didn’t need a new $70 “serpentine belt,” I had no facts on which to base my claim. I know less than jack about auto mechanics. They could have told me that my van was about to have kittens and I couldn’t say otherwise.
For this same reason, I could not properly identify the rattling and tapping sounds I heard after the tune up. It could be the trans-axle. It could also be a circus midget stuck in my oil filter. What the fuck do I know?
I brought the van back to another mechanic, the ones who had serviced my muffler a few months back. My hope was that the rattling was the muffler, which was still under warranty. They found that the rattle was not the muffler, but the engine mounts which, surprise surprise, were not under warranty.
I paid them my arm, leg, and one testicle and they repaired this problem for me. Now the rattle is 50% quieter. They assured me that the van passed the safety inspection and was safe to drive, but I needed to fix the chip in my windshield.
So I bring the van to yet another mechanic, a pleasant lady with a deep tan, big hair, and an extra smoky voice, you know, like a Speak N’ Spell. She fixed the chip which I had thought, until the other mechanics pointed it out, was a fleck of bird shit.
And so here I am with a van that sounded much better before the tune up, has cost me almost the same amount as a down payment on a new car, and, since I left it to get the windshield fixed, smells faintly of Camel cigarettes.
I’m really bothered by the noises my van is making. It creaks, it rattles, it taps. It’s like I’m driving a fucking haunted house. Despite all this, the “mechanics,” can’t find anything “wrong,” with it. This, however, does not keep them from sending me the “bill.”
To the credit of the van, it’s over 12 years old. I think I was still in grade school when I came home to find this new, marvelous vehicle in our driveway. It had all the high tech luxuries of the time, such as air conditioning and a tape player. We’re talking top of the line.
I remember looking at the interior and part of me, a dark part deep below my puberty, wondered what it would be like to have sex in the back seat. Today I look at the back seat and wonder what it would be like to have sex in my own bed.
Just recently the speedometer reached 120,000 miles. For most cars this marks the “cinderblock,” anniversary. Not my van though. My dad kept it in great shape and it came to me in perfect running order. It took me a whole year to properly fuck it up.
Anyway, when the car reached 120,000, the dashboard lit up. I was just driving along and all the sudden I’m celebrating Christmas in my car. Most of the lights went off again, except for the hated “Maint Req’d” light, signaling that it was time for a mechanic to replace your belts with cling wrap and urinate in your gas tank.
I brought it in for a plain and simple tune-up. They decided I wanted to spring for all the extras. While I wanted to argue that I didn’t need a new $70 “serpentine belt,” I had no facts on which to base my claim. I know less than jack about auto mechanics. They could have told me that my van was about to have kittens and I couldn’t say otherwise.
For this same reason, I could not properly identify the rattling and tapping sounds I heard after the tune up. It could be the trans-axle. It could also be a circus midget stuck in my oil filter. What the fuck do I know?
I brought the van back to another mechanic, the ones who had serviced my muffler a few months back. My hope was that the rattling was the muffler, which was still under warranty. They found that the rattle was not the muffler, but the engine mounts which, surprise surprise, were not under warranty.
I paid them my arm, leg, and one testicle and they repaired this problem for me. Now the rattle is 50% quieter. They assured me that the van passed the safety inspection and was safe to drive, but I needed to fix the chip in my windshield.
So I bring the van to yet another mechanic, a pleasant lady with a deep tan, big hair, and an extra smoky voice, you know, like a Speak N’ Spell. She fixed the chip which I had thought, until the other mechanics pointed it out, was a fleck of bird shit.
And so here I am with a van that sounded much better before the tune up, has cost me almost the same amount as a down payment on a new car, and, since I left it to get the windshield fixed, smells faintly of Camel cigarettes.
8/10/2003
Say Ouch!
My dentists have generally been kind, friendly, affable people. That said, I hope they all burn in hell.
It’s nothing personal. I rarely dislike someone on a personal level, but when it comes to certain professions (i.e. dentists, bank tellers, certain teachers), these people can all just line up to bite me.
Anyway, yesterday I went to see my new dentist. I won’t implicate them by giving you their business name, but I will say that it included the word “Gentle.” This is a complete fucking misnomer. The word “Gentle,” could easily have been replaced by “Hideously Painful,” “Bloodbath,” or “Is It Safe?”
Let me just state for the record that my teeth are in good shape. I haven’t had a cavity in years, I brush twice a day, and I go through mouthwash like it was about to be prohibited in the Constitution. I’ll be the first to admit that I need to floss more and I could certainly eat fewer sweets, but otherwise my teeth do alright.
These people found new and tender places to hurt me. They chiseled away at my teeth like they were engraving a fucking granite cornerstone. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if today’s date was now etched in one of my molars. Then they used the patented “Hurts Like Fuck,” water pick. I didn’t think it possible, but they invented a water pick that not only sounds like a drill, but also somehow causes the same amount of pain. Then, at long last, came the flossing. I lack the words to properly describe this garroting, but suffice it to say there was blood. Lots of blood. It was like my teeth were watching Reservoir Dogs.
The dentist then gave me a handheld mirror, and pointed to a particularly brutalized portion of my lower front gums. She said, “See where it’s bleeding here, that means you’re not flossing enough.”
Without second thought I responded, “Well, for the record, that’s also where you’ve been poking those sharp metal things.”
She gave a giggle, took back the mirror, and wrote something on my chart. I imagine it was something like, “Hurt him more next time!”
My dentists have generally been kind, friendly, affable people. That said, I hope they all burn in hell.
It’s nothing personal. I rarely dislike someone on a personal level, but when it comes to certain professions (i.e. dentists, bank tellers, certain teachers), these people can all just line up to bite me.
Anyway, yesterday I went to see my new dentist. I won’t implicate them by giving you their business name, but I will say that it included the word “Gentle.” This is a complete fucking misnomer. The word “Gentle,” could easily have been replaced by “Hideously Painful,” “Bloodbath,” or “Is It Safe?”
Let me just state for the record that my teeth are in good shape. I haven’t had a cavity in years, I brush twice a day, and I go through mouthwash like it was about to be prohibited in the Constitution. I’ll be the first to admit that I need to floss more and I could certainly eat fewer sweets, but otherwise my teeth do alright.
These people found new and tender places to hurt me. They chiseled away at my teeth like they were engraving a fucking granite cornerstone. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if today’s date was now etched in one of my molars. Then they used the patented “Hurts Like Fuck,” water pick. I didn’t think it possible, but they invented a water pick that not only sounds like a drill, but also somehow causes the same amount of pain. Then, at long last, came the flossing. I lack the words to properly describe this garroting, but suffice it to say there was blood. Lots of blood. It was like my teeth were watching Reservoir Dogs.
The dentist then gave me a handheld mirror, and pointed to a particularly brutalized portion of my lower front gums. She said, “See where it’s bleeding here, that means you’re not flossing enough.”
Without second thought I responded, “Well, for the record, that’s also where you’ve been poking those sharp metal things.”
She gave a giggle, took back the mirror, and wrote something on my chart. I imagine it was something like, “Hurt him more next time!”
8/06/2003
8/01/2003
I’ve started the job hunt again because I’m not getting nearly enough rejection in my normal day to day activities.
It first started after the bank finally returned the portion of my money that it was using for hookers and blow. I found that I was still only making it by the skin of my teeth. I suppose it is partially because I am living an opulent life. I’ve squandered my money on such extravagances as gingerale and underwear.
Anyway, of the three things trying to kill me (my bank, my stomach, and my job) my job has taken the last few swings. For one, this financial depression could easily be associated with the $358.89 I pay for my own health insurance each month. No benefits, no sick days, no vacation time. Freelance is a lot like being in school, only if you don’t get “good grades” you’re going to be living in a cardboard box trying to get drunk off Listerine. Performance has never been my problem, but when the deadlines are met and the work is finished, so are you. No severance package, no going away party. “You don’t mind being unemployed until we need you again, do you?”
I hear you say “If you’re a freelancer, why not have some other work on the side?” First of all, the job I have for the time being is a 40+ hour a week gig. I barely have time and energy to make myself an edible meal when I get home, much less start another job. I could cut back my hours at this job and get a foothold somewhere else, right? Wrong. Once my hours start dropping they have to hire someone else to pick up the slack. And guess what? A trained chimp could do my job. Soon enough they’re going to realize that they can get the same work done by hiring someone full-time for less than they’re paying me. And as for, “Getting some other work,” I’d like to direct your attention to Graph A-1. See this large curve that shoots off the graph here? That shows how much ass I had to kiss to get the job I have now.
And so here I am again. I’m shuffling through my address book, trying to find the names of the people who couldn’t help me find work a year ago, but may have something now. I’m checking the papers and the internet. I imagine it won’t be long until I’m cold-calling every design company in the phone book again. That’s a good way of learning about your local graphic design companies; like which ones work with traditional print design, which ones work with multimedia, and which ones are actually pizza delivery places.
“Oh, so you don’t need a graphic designer then? How about a delivery boy?”
It first started after the bank finally returned the portion of my money that it was using for hookers and blow. I found that I was still only making it by the skin of my teeth. I suppose it is partially because I am living an opulent life. I’ve squandered my money on such extravagances as gingerale and underwear.
Anyway, of the three things trying to kill me (my bank, my stomach, and my job) my job has taken the last few swings. For one, this financial depression could easily be associated with the $358.89 I pay for my own health insurance each month. No benefits, no sick days, no vacation time. Freelance is a lot like being in school, only if you don’t get “good grades” you’re going to be living in a cardboard box trying to get drunk off Listerine. Performance has never been my problem, but when the deadlines are met and the work is finished, so are you. No severance package, no going away party. “You don’t mind being unemployed until we need you again, do you?”
I hear you say “If you’re a freelancer, why not have some other work on the side?” First of all, the job I have for the time being is a 40+ hour a week gig. I barely have time and energy to make myself an edible meal when I get home, much less start another job. I could cut back my hours at this job and get a foothold somewhere else, right? Wrong. Once my hours start dropping they have to hire someone else to pick up the slack. And guess what? A trained chimp could do my job. Soon enough they’re going to realize that they can get the same work done by hiring someone full-time for less than they’re paying me. And as for, “Getting some other work,” I’d like to direct your attention to Graph A-1. See this large curve that shoots off the graph here? That shows how much ass I had to kiss to get the job I have now.
And so here I am again. I’m shuffling through my address book, trying to find the names of the people who couldn’t help me find work a year ago, but may have something now. I’m checking the papers and the internet. I imagine it won’t be long until I’m cold-calling every design company in the phone book again. That’s a good way of learning about your local graphic design companies; like which ones work with traditional print design, which ones work with multimedia, and which ones are actually pizza delivery places.
“Oh, so you don’t need a graphic designer then? How about a delivery boy?”
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