the confession

11-4-99

I fucked up.

I'll bet nobody thought they'd hear me say that, huh? I totally fucked up. I'm about to get spanked in the ass by my own poor judgement.

Okay, catch up time for those of you just tuning in (plus I could use a scorecard to keep track of all the shit I've gotten into): I hated my job, even though it was a perfectly good job. I thought it was beneath me, I thought it was getting in the way of my musical career. So I went out and interviewed for another job, and I quit the first job without waiting for a definite answer from the second one. I lied to my coworkers and told them I had that new job in the bag.

Naturally, the new job didn't pan out, so I took a week off and went hunting for a real job. Can't find one. I, Betsy Jones, cannot find a job. Remember a few weeks ago when I said "Oh, ha ha ha, I've never NOT gotten a job...." In fact, I also said I was probably jinxing myself by mentioning that. Well, fuck me. It's the goddamn holiday season, everybody has a big old "HIRING FOR THE HOLIDAYS" sign in the front window, but they all want to take three weeks to review applications and call me in for an interview. Fuck them.

No. Fuck me. This is still my fault.

My old coworkers called the music store yesterday! Not only did they say "Does Betsy work there? Betsy Jones?" but they also said, "Why? Why doesn't BETSY JONES work there? She told us she worked there! BETSY JONES...." Then they called me. Today I returned their call and sort of patched things up, telling them I thought I'd had the job sewn up when I quit, but that the music store had kinda fucked me over. Which it did. Penisface Music fucked me over! Things are okay with me and the old warehouse job now, so much that they want me to go back and work there.

Oh, fuck, I'm actually considering it. If they'd let me work half days, which they just might, I could teach in the afternoons and everything would be perfect. Except that I'd have to hang out with the racist people again, and everyone would know how I lied about getting a different job, and they'd all think I was lying again if I really did get another job.

But hey, maybe I won't get another job. The management of Penisface Music sure does know my name now, and they must think I'm an absolute moron. I certainly won't be getting any student referrals from good old Penisface.

On top of all the penisface crap, I dutifully called the bookstore regarding my application. It's not a bad store, but its name is stupid: Books A Million.

Chipper Little Store Employee: "Thanks a million for calling Books A Million, this is Melissa, can I help you?"

Betsy: "You already did. Have a nice day."

No way in hell am I working there.

After all my miserable phone calls this afternoon, I called a friend in Michigan and vented the whole ridiculous story to her. I veiled the call, saying I was checking to find out if Penisface ever contacted her for a reference. The whole embarrassing Penisface saga splattered out of my mouth and she clucked sympathetically. Nice to know you can get screwed over in Georgia as well as Michigan, is what I was thinking.