Trade Mistakes

Oh god.

I roll my eyes. It's my friend. I know she means well, but it's annoying when people care too much sometimes.

"You need a job."

There is one problem with her  suggestion. I already have a job. It's from when I wake up to when I fall asleep and it's called feeling sorry for myself. Yeah, it's a pretty demanding job. The hours are shit and so is the pay, but I am part of a million people strong network. Some people do it part time, others full time.

I work full time.

"I'll get one," I tell them. They mean well and I love them dearly, really. I mean if i loved myself as much as I loved them I would be the most concieted person on the planet. I love them that much. Maybe my love for them will pull me out of this rut and I ckinda hope it does.

Actually I'm kinda relying on that love.

Full time, kinda like my job. I think I mostly depend on their love though. When I really think about it. I need their appraisal. I need their smiles. I need the way they say 'it's okay now' when I wake up from a nightmare. This is what real friends are for. Not those fake friends you make in highschool that haunt you the rest of your life.

"When?"

I don't know how to answer. I'm kinda dumb struck. I shrug because it's all I can do. "I'll try tomorrow," I say. I never try tomorrow. I actually never try anymore. I say I will and I don't. It's kinda my thing.

Plus another job I have. It's called failure.

I kinda sleep in it at this point. I eat it. I breathe it. It's not like I really have a choice. Eighty-six percent of people are currently unhappy with their lives because they don't really consider themselves a success. I am not an exception to this. I am not the twenty-whatevers that hit it big.

Why?

Because if we were all successes life wouldn't really mean anything would it? Life is just like a big highschool. They kick you down and sometimes you stay down.

"Tomorrow isn't good enough."

I groan. Nothing is ever good enough, I'm not even good enough for my own standards. How depressing is that?

"I'm being serious."

I purse my lips into a flat line. It's kinda like heartbeat. If my lips are moving I'm alive, but if they're not I'm killing myself and the conversation. They know when to drop it. They shrug I and I smile. We share a laugh and I stay in bed. We rinse and repeat this cycle a lot.

Maybe one day it'll go differently. Maybe I'll have a job, like a real job, and become a part of those twenty-somethings percent. Maybe not and I'll keep being a failure. Same tune, same jobs, different day, except I'm more broken because I don't have those friends. I don't have their kindness and their handouts. I also probably don't have their pity anymore at that point.

I really want a job.