I was recently hired at the Community Food Cooperative, a holistic grocery store across the street from where I live. I applied for a job as a cook in the deli. I interviewed well, but the position, alas, went to someone else. They liked me so much that they called me back, and, as a result, I found a position in the butchery, wrapping and stocking meat products.
Even more recently than that, I was fired from that position. The official reason they gave me (on the telephone!) when they canned me was "We don't think you're working out." I was preplexed. Not once was I pulled aside and lectured on poor performance. Not once did a co-worker tell me they thought I had a bad attitude. I found out later, from my roommate who, coincidentally, was in a play with one of the cooks who worked in the kitchen, that I was fired because this one time I got angry and stopped being polite*.
I fucking hate hippies.
I was despondent, fucking pissed. I spent a week holed up in my room, loathing humanity's spineless existence. When I finally ventured forth into the tepid Spring evening of Downtown Bellingham, a strange sensation struck me: I was not at home. The change occurred so gradually as to be impreceptible. Ever since I met Mitch, I've spent countless hours on the I-5 corridor, contemplating him, the man who changed my life, the man I love. Every day off I spent south of Everett. Soon, Bellingham ceased being my home, and became the Place Where I Lived and Worked. Now, sans employment, Bellingham is the Place with the Lease that Keeps Me From Moving to Seattle.
It is but a mere four months until August 31st.
Despair.
