Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Not Unemployed! Kind of!

Depression is not a pretty thing, especially when it's not chemical. While I've always suffered from mood swings, anger-management issues, etc., I've never really been depressed before. Totally sucks, it does.

Lobo Bookshop and Café officially went out of business on February 11, 2004. It was the last true gay and lesbian bookstore in the city. I sank into an abyssmal state, because I was suddenly unemployed... again... but also because a major hub of the Houston gay community was gone forever. Gathering my wits, I did what any artist worth his Epsom salts does, and filed for unemployment, only to learn that because I only worked at Lobo for two months of the last fiscal year, and because previous to that I worked for a religious nonprofit, I am COMPLETELY INELIGIBLE FOR UNEMPLOYMENT. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Nyet. Smackdown. Pick up on total suckage part the second.

Granted, I had a little bit of cash coming in from freelance articles, and Jack's doing well at his new job (ad sales and marketing for OutSmart Magazine), so it wasn't like I was destitute or anything. Mainly, I just had nothing to do. I went on several interviews, and some seemed promising, but inevitably, none worked out (although my favorite was the anonymous communications firm that strung me along for months by telling me I had a job with them as soon as one particular temp finished his last project, then called me up to say they hired the temp full time; yeah, that was a happy little kidney punch).

Salvation reared it's musty head in the form of my buddy Jhonny (pronounced like the New Age musician), who got me a job with his best friend from second grade (gotta love those lifelong friendships: excellent for networking and starfucking). Now, I am the office manager for a locally-owned... um, interior decorating firm. Not that there's anything wrong with that: it's just another really gay job on my increasingly sequined résumé. To date, I've sold all-natural skin and hair care (and had to give makeovers to twelve-year-old girls: I made them all look like Jodie Foster's character in "Taxi Driver"), run the video porn section of a GLBT bookstore, and worked as a houseboy/maintenance man for an order of Catholic priests. All I need now is a stint as a professional drag queen, or maybe a high-priced rent boy, and I'll have collected them all, you know?

The new job's okay, though. I have, like, no responsibilities, other than answering the phone and occasional filing. I spend an average of 6 hours a day alone in an office, so I've managed to get work done on a lot of other projects. And my bosses (Ricky and Lucy: I swear I'm not making that up) are very cool people who fight like a married couple but take me out for margaritas on Monday nights.

Overall, things are okay. Not great or mindblowing, but slowly getting better. If anything, I'm glad I'm pulling myself out of the depression rut without the use of controlled substances...

...which I couldn't get a hold of anyway: I owe my psychiatrist, like, $400.

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