OK, as I predicted: I am still unemployed. I know, I said that I had a job at NASA AMES that would start today, but as it turns out, the temp agency that I was working through is run by retarded goats with prolapsed assholes.
So, I got up this morning, showered, packed a lunch, put most of my remaining money into my gas tank, and headed south on 880, then paid two dollars, a rather sizable chunk of my remaining funds, to go across the Dumbarton Bridge. I arrived at Moffett airbase at about 7:30, half an hour before I figured I was supposed to be there. Why didn't I know what time to arrive? Because after my interview on Thursday I had spoken to Michael Schofield, fuckwad extrordinaire, who told me that "You're good to go, they want you to start tomorrow (Friday). All I need to do is find out what time they want you to show up, either 8 or 9." Well, I begged out of Friday, said I couldn't begin till Monday. Schofield said that was cool, and he would get back to me about where to go to fill out the paperwork, and what time to arrive.
Well, I ran around like a maniac on Friday trying to tie up all the lose ends I had, and finish all the stories I was working on. It all worked out fine and I was ready to go. V took care of the monies needed for the Easter brunch under the assumtion that I would write her a check at the end of this week to cover my half. She dipped into her savings here. I needed all my remaining dough to pay for tolls, and gas after all.
Well, I never heard back from Schofield. I guess he was too busy masturbating to Goatse mirrors. At Moffett, I tried to get a visitors badge, then called Judy Hover, the woman who I was supposedly working for. I left a message. Then I called Apex. Michael wasn't in, as usual. I mean, it was early, so I guess it's excusable. But then, the 500 other times I'd called him in previous weeks, he'd been off on vacation, out sick, or at home rodgering his dog with no lube.
So here I sit, at home. Broke. Jobless. Pissed. And all this cock gobbling wheeler dealer can do is say he's sorry. He called me twice to appologize, and emailed me too. He sounded like a fucking ex-SO, trying desperately to get back in my pants. All because he couldn't be bothered to make one god dammed phone call on Friday. I called his ass that day, and he'd left early. Obviously the toddlers he keeps in his basement to satisfy his sick pedophiliac tendencies were in need of extra attention that day.
Didn't I say that I wouldn't get either job? Gplay gave me the brush off on Sunday. This is the third time in a row I have been up for two jobs and gotten neither. It's the second time this stupid NASA thing has fallen through.
I should have realized that this would explode in my face right from the start. I got the fucking lead off of Tribe, so I'll just chalk it up to the glitches inherent in the fledgeling system. *Sigh*. Craigslist has fucked me before too, and I still love them. Too bad social network sites kinda suck inherently.
So, back to the writing I go. I have some irons in the fire, so I'm not destitute. But the fact that I have somewhere around two grand in the mail.... that hurts. I wish magazines paid faster. It's not easy to make ends meet when you have no idea where your pay checks are.
Also... dork wizard needs health care badly