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“You know, after you were born, dad and I had to sell our house and go back to apartments for a while.”

I think mom told me that in some attempt to say “hey, if you have to sell your house...it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened to someone.” I don’t find that very comforting, but I appreciate her attempt. I remember some of what happened in those years where we apartment-hopped. I never felt safe. I never got comfortable. I was seven years old, checking the door locks before I went to bed. I promised myself that I wouldn’t let that happen to me once I was running things.

I have developed an unsettling pattern of behavior these days. I ignore the bills because I can’t look them in the eye. This only makes things worse, eventually because I end up having to pay late fees on a bill I already couldn’t pay by its due date. I decided that I’d stop that pattern of behavior. I’d make a serious effort to pay the bills the day after they arrive. At least then I’d know how much short I’m coming up and have time to try to do something about it before the bill was overdue.  

Thus, I paid bills today. I started with the mortgage because, if nothing else, in big red letters, I am not going to lose this house. It was too hard for me to get here. I haven’t been able to put hardware on the kitchen cabinets yet, and that’s ok, but I’m not going to lose the house.

“You’d type this stuff for me? You wouldn’t be insulted by that?”
“Tony, I’d walk in front of you and throw rose petals on the ground if you’d pay me.”

I figured that I could work 30 or maybe 40 hours a week doing data entry somewhere while my real job figures out what its deal is. I could do both, as long as Colombia keeps making coffee. Thing is, I can’t even seem to get called for a job in data entry. Not even by people who haven’t seen me. I think it may be time to start lying. My name is Amy. I just got out of college. I took some time off after high school. I am 26. I type quickly, and I love to file things.  

I’m supposed to be working on a logo today, but I can’t stop crying.
I secretly hate freelancing.
I do it because I have to.

I don’t want to spend my time wondering what evil-assed things I’m going to have to do to get someone to pay his or her invoice. I just want to do my work and get money for it. And maybe also full dental.

I’m tired of writing well thought-out cover letters, only to receive an auto-response from a robot with a human name, telling me to sign up to be a secret shopper or something. In the days before the internet, at least a job listing really WAS a job listing. Now there’s a 50/50 chance that it’s just some ploy to get you to sign up for some stupid service. In one completely demoralizing case, I went to a site called “find a freelancer” or something, where people would fight for jobs by submitting bids. Average price for a logo was 30 bucks.  

I have told Jen that she’ll know when it’s really bad when I sell my car for a scooter. As is, I’m cashing out my other 401k. I don’t know what else to do. I’m at maximum ass-haul and it’s still not good enough. I don’t sleep and I’m living on tuna and frozen broccoli. Still, it could be worse. One of my friends is living on ramen.



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