I’ve been trying to get to the unemployment office all week, however a suspect diet beverage at Good Friends derailed my plans Tuesday afternoon. I swear, there was some bacteria in the diet cola lines that gave me ecoli or salmonella or something equally dreadful as I was in either in bed or on the toilet from that moment until early this morning.
I woke up at 6:30 (or stayed up until 6:30, depending on how you look at it) and rode the Esplanade bus to St. Charles and Jackson then rode my bike to Thalia St. and arived shortly before 8am. I proceded to wait in line outside for an hour and a half until they herded us into another line for an hour inside a short, claustrophobic hallway somewhere inside the bowels of the Louisiana Department of Labor while we filled out forms and small slips of white paper explaining in detail what each of us did in our previous jobs to deserve to be there.. Next, they made us play musical chairs for 2 hours while they called out strange combinations of numbers, colors and mangled interpretations of our names. It was like Bingo on Star Trek or something. “38, blue.” “41” “Vincent Maca.. Macaluca” “32, Yellow” “Anita Bowangula, 37 blue.” I mean, I accept the fact that I had to sacrifice an entire Friday in line at Unemployment for what I did wrong, and what I did was wrong but I think they’re crazy for making us filling out little white slips telling them who I think I am. What do they care? They see me as they want to see me. In the most simplest terms, the most convient defintions they see me as a graphic designer, a bike nerd, a blogger, a queen, and an abuser of the system. Does that answer their question?
Ok, it’s late and the power is off at my house and I can’t sleep without a box fan some sort of noise going on around me. So now I’m at Napoleon’s Itch listening to HORRIFIC dance music and drinking their weird Diet Coke mix.
