You want to know something totally, totally shitty? Remember that communications director job at our conference office I applied for, was promised an interview for, and was wondrously qualified for? They gave it to someone else. Without so much as calling me to a) set up that promised interview or b) tell me they hired someone else. I called up the conference office to bitch someone out only to discover that they assumed I was no longer interested because I was “in talks about becoming ordained.” In case you don’t remember, this “in talks” business consisted of a couple of middle aged people nagging me about considering the ministry. At no point did I say “yes, I would like to become a lady minister.” Bastards!

A cynical part of me believes that they’re thinking maybe if they screw me enough on the job business I’ll be forced into the ministry. The joke’s on them, though. It’s pretty much impossible for me, finance-wise, to go skipping off to seminary next semester because working in the church yields me far more old lady cheek kisses and brownies than money.

Unless someone would like to swap my 15 year old oldsmobile for a van I could live in down by the river? Actually, that’s a bit of a fantasy of mine: there was a National Geographic article several years ago about Oxford University. In it was a photo of a handsome man living in a van with bookshelf walls. I would love to live anywhere with walls entirely made of bookshelves.

You’d think I’d be really upset about the lousy way the people in charge of my denomination have treated me. But I’m surprisingly laid back about the whole thing… other than those two minutes yesterday when I burst out crying about how I’ll always be poor and screwed–and not in the good way–while discussing the rate increase on my phone bill with my sister. Those two minutes pretty much did it, though. Those people, I’ve quite reasonably concluded, are dicks. I don’t want to work for dicks. Working for dicks makes me hate my life. I’ve done it. I know. And when My Kind of Mainline Protestants are dicks, it makes me sad for all of us. So screw ’em.

I’m surprising optimistic today. I sent out another resume for another newspaper job. I have hilarious writing samples to go with it, in lieu of the clips actual journalists would have, and cover letter I’m proud of. I like to consider the combination memorable and a good presentation of why I’m a superior writer to all those suckers who went to journalism school. My zine is coming together like a dream. And I’m writing a good five pages a day on my novel thingy.

I’m desperately shuffling all my money around so I’ll have enough to get through the summer. That shuffling could be depressing, except it is made necessary by the number of friends who’ll be visiting me or whom I’ll be visiting over the summer.

I’m too broke to get the sort of daytime drunk being screwed over would suggest, so I go running instead. It’s good for the calves, aesthetically speaking. I keep leaning over to take pictures of my own legs, so great is my satisfaction.

Next week I’ll be celebrating Bloomsday as a ringer on a pub trivia team in exchange for free beer. I love trivia. And James Joyce. And free beer.

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