Diary of a Freeloader

Unemployed.

I believe that there comes a certain point in a person's life when you're condemned to an existence of scraping out a living through a string of dead-end jobs. Often you will be reminded by someone that people with much fewer advantages then yourself have become a success, like Whoopi Goldberg or Tyler Perry. This is supposed to be a motivator?

I envy most of my ex-classmates from college. Even the irritating, hipster film student. They all had a goal and focused on it like a laser. I never had a desire to do anything, and despite a handful of paltry interests, not enough talent to consider pursuing any of them as a career.

Right now, mom is buzzing around the apartment, rambling incoherently about all the work she has to do, or the amount of pain she's in. Sometimes, in a weak moment, I confide in her about my work worries. What ensues is a naive sermon about how "if you can't be stopped, you won't be stopped" and a few celebrity anecdotes. A favorite story of hers is the one about going to school and paying for it all by herself. One is tempted to fall back on the old "that was then, this is a recession" argument. But really, when you shoot yourself in the foot as much as I have, you can't reasonably do much besides sit and suffer the onslaught of trite advice.

She is a fountain of wrong facts. She prattles on about my "talents" (largely shit), my beauty (Telling me to consider a career in modeling), by intelligence (sub-par at the very best), my expertise in politics (mostly parroting whatever I've read from Chomsky).

There probably is no secret to being successful. There is, however, an expiration date on one's prospects.

It occurred to me last week that I have made absolutely no contribution to anyone, or anything. Part of it is due to my own hedonistic nature. But I never had any desires or goals for myself. I just naturally assumed that I would stumble into a well-paying job. Later, once I came to term with my self-loathing, I naturally assumed I would end up on the street, and eventually jump off a roof somewhere.

Then again, I also assumed I would end up a 30 year-old virgin. Luckily, I passed that hurdle last year. But again, it was through no effort of my own. I didn't even lift a finger; It was consolatory sex. She came all the way up here from Virginia, footed the bill for a hostel, paid for meals, all to spend a weekend with me. Afterward, even I was mildly surprised at my blissful ignorance about other people's sacrifices and needs. I didn't even finish my breakfast at IHOP (complimentary of my date, again.) It didn't even occur to me how thoughtless it was until I spoke to her facebook that following week.

She shrugs off these quirks and inadequacies of mine. I don't.

A few days ago I called her up. I don't do it often; it's impossible to disguise my total lack of a life. She mentioned that she may come to see me again, at considerable expense, since I "still haven't gotten [my] shit together." Said in jest, obviously.

(Not laughing)

I don't know where to go from here. I feel like an underdeveloped human being, with nowhere to turn for a honest reflection of myself. We are reflected in the people we know; I am largely friendless, walling myself off in this cramped apartment with nothing to do all day.

The trek ahead is long, and I don't have the energy to even begin. It's obvious what I have to do to repair my life, but I lack the will. I want to sleep all day and be left alone.

First, I'm expected to hit the pavement and look for volunteer work. I should study my lingual skills in my free time. Keep walking into random retail stores asking for a job application. Endure the narrowed eyes of the manager as they stare at my largely-blank work history.

I am almost 26. Or maybe I am 26 already. I don't keep track anymore.

I'm not afraid of getting old, but I know that life enjoys taking things away from you. Your health, your vitality, your possessions. I am not a self-sufficient person. If the recession deepens, I'm fucked. Mom can't afford this apartment as it it. No one would take me (or her) in. She entertains the possibility that our magnanimous Aunt Lee would let me shack up in her house, but I know Lee too well for that. We're completely identical.

Except she's less cute and still a virgin.

No, Aunt Lee would bitch and moan about us barging in, mooching off and violating her space. To be fair, though, I don't have a counter-argument.

We all have a desire to be great in some way, regardless of how we act. Even the slackers like me who just want to live comfortably and get laid on a regular basis. That's one of the grim realities of living with New Yorkers; these people have grit in them. Living among them is particularly shameful when you're as unmotivated and parasitic as I am.

So what's new. Obviously, nothing. I take solace in my dvd rentals. I'm alternating between Babylon Five, Doctor who and Farscape. Mom likes the Doctor Who episodes, but lacks a taste for sci-fi generally. As for me, I don't know why I watch so much of it. I don't particularly like speculative fiction (what a gay-sounding term.) I do like dorky action heroes who operate in a fantasy realm. I guess I've always identified with that type of self-image. In fact, that's been my dream job all my life. Time Cop.

The deadened silence of this place makes you want to collapse in bed.