Why yes, I AM stil feeling sorry for myself.

Today is the anniversary of Michael Jackson's death.  His music was everywhere, that heartbreaking clip of Paris as she broke down at his memorial.  A daughter losing a father, at such a young age.  It obviously struck a chord in me a year ago, and I remember being heartbroken at my desk.  A desk that I no longer have.

Even though I've lost 6 pounds in my 11 days of unemployment, I still don't fit into anything I own.  My fat pants don't fit.  This was fine when I had a job that took me as I was, but now I have to look fit, competent, and ready.

And I'm none of those things.  And when I'm alone at night, after Lover Boy has gone to work, and I have time to think, it's devastating.  I have a worthless degree, and 10 years of experience in worthless, stupid jobs.  That look horrible on my resume.

And it's fairly easy to keep a sunny outlook in front of people.  But the nights that I'm alone, It's impossible to fool myself.

All I've ever wanted to be was a writer, and it seems I'm about to be screwed for the last time on that front.  I suppose I should feel somewhat flattered that my work continues to be stolen, but I don't.  I feel cheated and not any good at the only thing I've ever been good at.  Perhaps I'm not even good at it.  It's never been confirmed by anyone but my mother and a great high school English teacher.  The people closest to me never even bother to read my blog, this or my public one.  At it's the people closest to you that are supposed to matter.

But I'm sure I'll lose them eventually too, with this attitude.