THE GREAT GADFLY:

Incidents Occurring

Hypoglycemia and good news, they're the chocolate and peanut butter that do my nervous system proud.

It just hit me that I haven't really eaten anything today, with the exception of a cup of coffee and a mug of cocoa. Well, actually, both beverages were in the same container - a chintzy little coffee cup - so I guess in actuality, I had a CUP of cocoa. But I prefer saying "mug of cocoa". It doesn't sound right the other way.

Wait. What was I writing about? Oh, I will enjoy a large dinner tonight, and rediscover my infamous talent for pinpoint focus.

Oh, right, good news. So, exciting developments on the job front! Holy crap, I think the last time I was able to say that, it wasn't even summer yet and my good job-hopping news wasn't so good after all...and for the past seven months, I've been scrounging and getting by and treating every trip to the record store with the extravagent splurgey reverence that I'd assign to, say, a luxury fucking cruise on the goddamned Love Boat.

Well, as of very soon, all that could change. I got a bite. I got a really fortuitous bite. Not a nibble, mind you - a BITE. A bite that lasted several e-mails, a phone call regarding a strategic conversation revising my resume to appease the personnel gods at this prospective employer, and the ending chomp of the bite: "We think you're the right one."

Holy weeping Christ child, when was the last time I've heard THAT phrase? I almost reached for my English/What-The?! translator's dictionary, but then I remembered:

Oh. Right. Yeah. I'm terribly talented and smart and qualified at certain things.

And it's not like I've finally been given the anchor desk at The Daily Show or have been asked to fluff David Bowie's pillows (or fluff David Bowie, for that matter) or some kind of faboo ridiculous dream job: nah, it's just another legal word processing gig.

But you know what - it's my first legal word processing gig in which I would start in the middle of this crap economy and nightmarish job market. You think I'm gonna be so aloof about a soul-sucking job tickling the qwertys when I've spent the past seven months clawing for decent enough work to afford a nice burlap sack to wear to the soup kitchen?!

I welcome the free car service home, the snotty lawyers tossing revisions at my head like a john tossing cash at a whore, the culture-free vac-u-pack "professional" environment...even the fucking sports talk. Sure, bring it on. Love it. Whoo.

This time around, I will take the good money I make and I will travel on weekends. I will adopt and old cat and give it a few comfortable years of companionship before it goes to kitty heaven. I will buy some freakin' new socks and underwear fer cryin' out loud.

I will buy the GOOD brands of groceries and not the creepy store versions.

And I will appreciate these things. And after squeezing all I could out of the past seven months of temp hell, I will walk into this job ready to go, glad ta meetcha, bring on the office politics. Again: WHOO.

It's time for me to have medical benefits again. It's time for personal days and vacation days and paid holidays. It's time.

It's time for a bit of a karmic windfall. Yes, please. Thank you.

I got an e-mail from an old NYC job today about some money I allegedly have coming to me. Oh, I'm sure it'll be like twenty-five bucks, but hey - maybe it's fate's olive branch? Hmmm?

I won't hold my stinky breath. But I can hope and hope and hope till the oceans dry up.

This potential new job is supposed to be a fast mover. More details, I hope, sooner than later.

One last time, with feeling: WHOO!!