Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here:

Otherwise, hello, and welcome.
Mail Trillian here<

Trillian McMillian
Trillian McMillian
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Women, The Internet and You: Tips for Men Who Use Online Dating Sites
Part I, Your Profile and Email

Part II, Selecting a Potential Date

Part III, Your First Date!

Part IV, After the First Date. Now What?

"50 First Dates"

Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.

Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Find Federal Officials
Enter ZIP Code:

or Search by State

Find State Officials
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or Search by State

Contact The Media
Enter ZIP Code:

or Search by State

Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)



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11/17/13 12/1/13 - 12/8/13 12/15/13 - 12/22/13 12/29/13 - 1/5/14 6/29/14 - 7/6/14 9/14/14 - 9/21/14 9/21/14 - 9/28/14 10/12/14 - 10/19/14 11/23/14 - 11/30/14 12/7/14 - 12/14/14 12/28/14 - 1/4/15 1/25/15 - 2/1/15 2/8/15 - 2/15/15 2/22/15 - 3/1/15 3/8/15 - 3/15/15 3/15/15 - 3/22/15 3/22/15 - 3/29/15 4/12/15 - 4/19/15 4/19/15 - 4/26/15 5/3/15 - 5/10/15 5/17/15 - 5/24/15 5/24/15 - 5/31/15 6/14/15 - 6/21/15 6/28/15 - 7/5/15 7/5/15 - 7/12/15 7/19/15 - 7/26/15 8/16/15 - 8/23/15 11/6/16 - 11/13/16 6/24/18 - 7/1/18

Highlights from the Archives. Some favorite Trillian moments.

Void, Of Course: Eliminating Expectations and Emotions for a Better Way of Life

200i: iPodyssey

Macs Are from Venus, Windows is from Mars Can a relationship survive across platform barriers?
Jerking Off

Get A Job

Office Church Ladies: A Fieldguide

'Cause I'm a Blonde

True? Honestly? I think not.

A Good Day AND Funyuns?

The Easter Boy

Relationship in the Dumpster

Wedding Dress 4 Sale, Never Worn

Got Friends? Are You Sure? Take This Test

What About Class? Take This Test

A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far Far Away, There Was a Really Bad Movie

May Your Alchemical Process be Complete. Rob Roy Recipe

Good Thing She's Not in a Good Mood Very Often (We Knew it Wouldn't Last)

What Do I Have to Do to Put You in this Car Today?

Of Mice and Me (Killer Cat Strikes in Local Woman's Apartment)

Trillian: The Musical (The Holiday Special)

LA Woman (I Love (Hate) LA)

It is my Cultureth
...and it would suit-eth me kindly to speak-eth in such mannered tongue


It's a Little Bit Me, It's a Little Bit You
Blogging a Legacy for Future Generations

Parents Visiting? Use Trillian's Mantra!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Mod Hair Ken

Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other

2003 Holiday Sho-Lo/Mullet Awards

Crullers, The Beer Store and Other Saintly Places

Come on Out of that Doghouse! It's a Sunshine Day!

"...I had no idea our CEO is actually Paula Abdul in disguise."

Lap Dance of the Cripple

Of Muppets and American Idols
"I said happier place, not crappier place!"

Finally Off Crutches, Trillian is Emancipated

Payless? Trillian? Shoe Confessions

Reality Wednesday: Extremely Local Pub

Reality Wednesday: Backstage Staging Zone (The Sweater Blog)

The Night Secret Agent Man Shot My Dad

To Dream the Impossible Dream: The Office Karaoke Party

Trillian Flies Economy Class (Prisoner, Cell Block H)

Trillian Visits the Village of the Damned, Takes Drugs, Becomes Delusional and Blogs Her Brains Out

Trillian's Parents are Powerless

Striptease for Spiders: A PETA Charity Event (People for the Ethical Treatment of Arachnids)

What's Up with Trillian and the Richard Branson Worship?

"Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!"

Mail Trillian here

Trillian's Guide to the Galaxy gives 5 stars to these places in the Universe:
So much more than fun with fonts, this is a daily dose of visual poetry set against a backdrop of historical trivia. (C'mon, how can you not love a site that notes Wolfman Jack's birthday?!)


Alliance for the Great Lakes

Hot, so cool, so cool we're hot.

Ig Nobel Awards

And you think YOU have the worst bridesmaid dress?

Coolest Jewelry in the Universe here (trust Trillian, she knows)

Red Tango

If your boss is an idiot, click here.

Evil Cat Full of Loathing.

Wildlife Works

Detroit Cobras

The Beachwood Reporter is better than not all, but most sex.

Hey! Why not check out some great art and illustration while you're here? Please? It won't hurt and it's free.


Kii Arens

Tim Biskup

Jeff Soto


Get Fuzzy Now!
If you're not getting fuzzy, you should be. All hail Darby Conley. Yes, he's part of the Syndicate. But he's cool.

Who or what is HWNMNBS: (He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken) Trillian's ex-fiancé. "Issues? What issues?"

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

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Reading blogs at work? Click to escape to a suitable site!

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right

Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains

Life(?) of Trillian

Friday, October 14, 2011  
Wheeeee!!!! I forgot I had $34 in my Pay Pal account thanks to a couple items sold on eBay!


This is great news, because the verdict derived from the reader suggestions about what to do next is:
Engage in self-destructive behaviors.

Except it's not so much "self-destructive" as it is "react to outside influences." The non-self-induced destruction already occurred, and I tried every means of corrective action that I could conceive, and failed, and so, now I'm free to throw caution to the wind and just live in the moment.

Yes, I know, I'm just a knock on the door away from living under the highway overpass by night and pushing a grocery cart around town by day, and I will be living in some not-so-great moments very soon. But, that's kinda the point - I'm already down, I tried to climb out but kept falling.

The two options are: Stand in the hole waiting for the final collapse, or, start digging.

I'm embracing failure and the subsequent liberation of defeat.

During those days when I was being tested for cancer I felt so unburdened, such profound relief, and that felt so good.

I was kinda mad to have relief taken away from me.

But it occurs to me that similar relief can be derived from the unburdening myself of my metaphoric life. Live in this moment, right now, and don't think about the next one, certainly not the next day.

So, yesterday I remembered I have money in my Pay Pal account that, with a couple clicks, went into my bank account. Today: Whatever gamboling I can devise with just my whims and a few dollars.

A movie and Twizzlers? Yeah, that'll cost about $34. So, maybe. Booze is a possibility. So predictable though. And, as we've discussed, during the past two years apart from a couple notable exceptions I've had very little desire to drink or get drunk. I've had plenty of opportunities and almost no desire. So, I dunno, as self destructive as it sounds, I'm not sure that's the first whim upon which I will act.

I'm drawn to the concept that many (most?) truly self-destructive behaviors are not typically considered vices. Alcohol, booze, drugs, food, sex and money are the usual go-to outlets for self-destructive behavior. But there are oh so many more ways to self-destruct. Watch any television pop psychologist (or any reality show, for that matter) and you'll get a long list of ways to self-destruct.

Some of them are a matter of perspective. For example, I happen to view fake boobs, hair extensions and Botox as self-destructive behavior. But many (many) women (and the men who fuck them) disagree so strongly that they'll come at me in an angry mob with torches and pitchforks just for writing that on a blog. For them, these artificial enhancements are where they derive self-esteem. And if it gives you confidence, it can't be bad, right? That's their argument. Their POV. I don't share that opinion, but I'm not judging them. No, really, I'm not. Even though I have zero emotional investment in them, I'm worrying about them. And even more to my point, I'm worried about what's reflected in their need to derive self-esteem from fake boobs, hair and line-less faces. And what they're perpetuating. To me, that behavior reaches beyond self-destructive and is squarely in: This is part of the decay of civilization, we're devolving at a rate faster than the naturally scheduled progression. See? This is the thing about self-destructive behaviors that intrigues me. There's a lot more to self-destruction than a drinking problem, a drug problem, a gambling problem, a shopping problem, an eating problem, or insatiable sexuality. And a lot of gray area about what actually is self-destructive behavior.

The one that always annoys and confuses me is the trite pop-psych fodder of someone who "loves too much." Or someone who's "too nice." Going on the presumption it's genuine, sincere, heart-felt, the real deal, is it truly possible to love too much or be too nice? I mean, no one takes issue with Ghandi or Mother Theresa or the Dalai Lama*, all of whom, were they not international icons of Doing The Right Thing, would be accused of loving too much or being too nice. But they're universally accepted as: really good people, inspirational people, mere mortals to whom we are all reverential. But when a regular schmoe exhibits behaviors like theirs, the schmoe is viewed as flawed, met with resistance, regarded with disdain and dismissed with Dr. Phil drivel: They love too much; they're too nice.

Loving too much or being too nice are viewed as self-destructive behaviors. I'm pretty sure I will never understand that dichotomy. Why was it okay for Ghandi or Mother Theresa to be nice and love boundlessly, without scorn or psychological analysis and dismissal, but the same feelings and behavior are not "normal" or "stable" when exhibited by the woman you dated three years ago and dumped because she loved you too much, or the guy down the street who's always friendly and there to help his neighbors who's viewed as creepy because he's too nice? This will never make sense to me.

But I don't think I'm in danger of loving too much today. I dunno, though. Maybe. Maybe I'll go out and tell a bunch of strangers on the street that I love them and give them my Pay Pal money. That oughtta get me a one way bus pass to the crazy part of town.

What's your favorite self-destructive behavior that's not typically viewed as a vice?

Also, I need to address an err, atone for an oversight. I did not, and do not, mean to diminish a cancer scare. And I certainly did not mean to diminish or judge people who are battling cancer.  This was my personal issue and response, which has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I have utmost respect for anyone who is dealing with cancer. If I came off in any way disrespectful or harsh or judgmental I am really, genuinely sorry. That is absolutely not how I feel about anyone other than myself. I know life is precious and most people fight for it and I respect and admire that drive and courage.

*There's gotta be a joke in there somewhere. "Ghandi, Mother Theresa and the Dalai Lama walk into a bar..."

2:07 PM

Tuesday, October 11, 2011  
So, I visited a different circle of Hell.

Okay. Well then.

It was, um, interesting.

Always nice to have a change of scenery, meet new people, have new experiences. Even if it is just a different circle of Hell.

I've long suspected I died and went to Hell in 1999. I don't have concrete proof, but there is an increasing body of substantial evidence.

If it's true, I'm not sure what that says about you. Either you're reading this via some portal, a gate of Hell accessed via your computer, or, well, sorry to be the one to break it to you,  but you're in Hell, too.

There is evidence to contrary, some glimmers of hope that I'm not in Hell, that this is merely very mortal run-of-the-mill existential malaise. For instance there's no way in, well, Hell, that my mother would be in Hell. And she's a daily part of of my existence, long as she's part of my existence I think that means I can't be in Hell. Since 1999 I've seen some really gorgeous Earthly natural beauty and I'm pretty sure there aren't Earthly displays of natural beauty in Hell.

So, you know, there are experiences that give me sound reason to believe I'm not in Hell. It's not all Hellish.


Hell-like, at times.


Some of you might need to be caught up on a few things to really grasp what's going on.

In 1999 I was in a minor bike accident that didn't cause any serious injury, but I had some lingering pain in my hip. Nothing showed up on x-rays, which was good, of course, but, as a young woman with a lot of life ahead of her, a steady boyfriend and the plan to have children, my doctor wanted to make extra-sure that all was well in the pelvis area. So she sent me for a CT.

Okay. Maybe some of you know that typically for CT scans to really show every nook and cranny of our insides, iodine is fed through an IV. The iodine quickly courses through veins and creates an ultra-vivid contrast to the tissue, tendons and organs when viewed through the CT scan lens and images like x-rays are derived. Cool, right? Right. It is truly very cool.

Unless you're allergic to iodine.

In which case it's deadly.

As in immediate anaphylaxis deadly.

I'd never had a CT scan or any other need to ingest iodine. They ask some basic questions like, "Are you allergic to shellfish?" "Have you ever had sickness or irritation resulting from an Betadine first-aid treatment?" and, "Have you ever been involved in a nuclear accident requiring iodine tablet treatment?"

At that point in my life I'd a) been a vegetarian for several years; b) been reasonably healthy and injury-free; and c) not been directly exposed to nuclear fallout.

There were a lot of questions about food, primarily shellfish and salty food.

When I was a really little kid I tried shrimp and hated it.  The texture made me gag. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Never understood all the hullabaloo about it. (Ditto scallops for that matter.) Also, when I was a very small child visiting my aunt and uncle, they unwittingly took me to a restaurant where they did the whole, "Choose your lobster and we'll steam it in front of you" blood-lust thing. I, of course, was fascinated with the tanks full of lobsters but when I saw them being killed, well, let's just say a) scarred for life and b) even though I was too young to understand the term "vegetarian," I would never go anywhere near a plate with anything remotely resembling a sea animal after that. And it was relatively few years later that I refused to eat anything with a mother.

My mother was a hippie in June Cleaver clothing. She has been anti-preservative for as long as anyone who knows her can remember. She rarely buys bread or any packaged baked good - unless it comes from the local bakery. She always made bread and pretty much everything else completely from raw, scratch ingredients. And even those ingredients came from local farms. I was paid in eggs at my first job. Yes. My first job was to go across the road to the farm, fetch egg baskets off the farmhouse porch, then go into the hen house, collect eggs, give them to Mrs. Farmer, who gave me several eggs and occasionally a bonus of a dime. I had absolutely no idea that my mother was also getting other, um, parts of the chicken from Mr. Farmer who had a back-door barn operation where he sold milk, butter, vegetables, raw fresh-sheared wool and...chickens. The chickens were wrapped in paper and I had no idea what my mother and the other neighborhood mothers were procuring in those brown packages, at least not until I was old enough to connect the dots between the steady turnover of chickens in the hen house. But. That's a blog for another day.

Anyway, point being, my mother has been "eating fresh, eating local" for far longer than even the hippie granola movement caught on. My mother casts a dubious eye at the FDA and every time there's a food contamination outbreak my mother gets smugly superior and somewhat high-and-mighty about food. And she casts a disapproving eye on anything that has even the faintest taste of sodium. She thinks "they're trying to cover up the fact that the food isn't fresh" by liberally dosing it with salt. And she's right. And I'm thankful, my cardiac function is thankful, that she is so anti-sodium. This a long way to say: We didn't eat or use much salt in our family. We had salt in the house, and my mother did use small dashes in cooking, but there were no salt shakers on the table like at my friends' houses. And though we weren't Jewish, the only salt used in our house was Kosher salt, which is typically iodine-free. (I didn't realize/understand what Kosher meant until my dad's sister and cousin came to visit and I overheard a lengthy gossip session about the Kosher salt, my mother, and the possible religious skeletons in her closet.)

Ta-dah. And so it was that it came to pass that as an adult I had absolutely no idea that am allergic to iodine. And not just a little allergic to iodine. Not "just a little itchy" allergic. Full-blown anaphylaxis allergic.

And on that fateful afternoon in 1999 when, after a bike crash, I went in for a routine CT to make sure my pelvis was healthy and okay to sustain childbirth, I "died" for what's best calculated at 4 minutes. What happened pre, during and after is another blog, heck, another 12 volume set, for another day, another life(?)time.

Some of the long term readers know/remember this and know it's the main source of the (?) after Life.

And you may better understand why I have valid reason to believe I'm dead and in Hell. 

So, yeah, the iodine thing is kind of a big deal for me. And so, you can understand why the term CT strikes fear in my heart. This reared its ugly head when I injured my foot a few years ago. "They" really needed a contrast CT to get a good understanding of what was causing the swelling, redness and pain. Without the iodine, the CT didn't really show much except enlarged tendons and tissue...and, well, duh, one look at the outside of my foot showed that. When I finally had foot surgery they affixed three, count 'em three, big red and orange warning tags to my body spelling out my iodine allergy.

Okay. So. I haven't been feeling well for several months. Longer, actually, but until a few months ago I  attributed the symptoms to stress, depression, fatigue and anxiety, and not eating properly. And then some new symptoms emerged, kind of troubling symptoms, symptoms that could not be excused away by poor mental health and lack of nutritious food.

I bit the bullet, borrowed money and saw my doctor.

After a couple subsequent lab tests and doctor visits (more borrowed money), and conversations about the symptoms and the preliminary lab results, yadda yadda yadda my doctor wanted me to have a CT. I'm still not sure what scared me most: The possible health issue that would be exposed, the abject paranoia I have of CT imaging, or the cost without insurance.

At some point in all of this I asked my doctor what she was looking for on the CT. She just said, "Trillian, you're intelligent, you wouldn't be here if you weren't smart enough to know that we need to have these tests to rule out what we're both thinking. I don't need to say it, yet, because you don't need to hear it from me, yet. Get the CT, don't let them give you iodine and we'll talk when the results are returned."

The "it" to which she was referring was that every symptom and then the preliminary lab tests pointed to a serious health issue. And, when she didn't immediately dismiss the notion or my inquiries, I took that as "proof" that my suspicions were correct. I left her office with a prescription for a CT and assumption that I had cancer.


I told you. A new circle of Hell.


Instead of being scared or angry or upset in any way, I was relieved. I felt emotionally unburdened and relieved. I felt mentally better than I have in a long time - years. By the time I went in for the CT, no longer afraid of pretty much anything, I was giddy over the prospect of what it would show, even without the iodine. (Even running into my former boss and would-be employer who rejected me didn't bring me down - embarrassed me, yes, bring me down? Nope.) For a few moments during those few days I thought maybe this was mercy. Maybe there was a God and He was finally taking pity on me and helping me bow out of this quickly, giving me an escape. Mercy.

Things made sense. In the past 5 -6 years things have been steadily falling away and I struggled to figure out why and what I could do to pull things back. For a few glorious days when I thought I could be terminally ill all the losses made sense. The Universe was winding down, alleviating my necessity, phasing me out. Think about it: I'm at a point in my life where the only responsibilities I have are for my mother's well-being and my own future. No one's depending on me for anything. The decks are empty. No job. No significant other. No kids. No pets. Except for my mother, no one's relying on me for anything. And my mother can manage without me. She'll be sad, but she can manage without me. Ditto my friends. So I was starting to realize, "Ah, okay, it all makes sense, now. I'm being downsized from life."

Now my questions were all related to: Not if, but how advanced? How much longer would I have to endure this life(?) in this body? I was hoping for a 6-9 month diagnosis. I'm not sure why, really, but it sounded like the right amount of time.


I'm pretty sure I know what you're thinking.
A) Trillian needs a team of trained therapists. (Nothing new there, really.)
B) Wow, I didn't realize Trillian was such a hypochondriac. (I'm not...the symptoms were severe and scary.)
C) Wow, I knew Trillian was under a lot of stress but I didn't realize she was that depressed.
D) Wow, why am I reading this blog?

So. Yesterday I had a long talk with my doctor about the test results. There are a few things wrong with me. None of them fatal, even if I forgo treatment.

Painful, disconcerting and not exactly the way "we" like to have our bodies functioning, but not fatal. There are still some questions to be answered regarding a couple of the lab results, and a couple areas on the CT that "we" "want to watch" but without further, more expensive tests there's no way to get concrete answers. The possibilities aren't minor enough to be dismissed, but not major enough to warrant the concern "we" had prior to the CT and other preliminary tests.

It's not a run-of-the-mill infection and my blood test results indicate some unsettling issues which may, or may not, among other things, be attributed to a lack of, you guessed it, sodium and iodine. But. As of right now it doesn't appear that I have cancer.

Which is how my doctor phrased it. "There are a few things going on inside you, but, cancer isn't one of them."

This was final confirmation that "we" were both thinking what she wouldn't say out loud until we had the results. Now that she's certain I don't have it, she'll say the word out loud, which means prior to the test results she thought there was a chance I did have it.

Here's the real issue, though.

I'm disappointed.

Enter: Self-judgment and doubt. I'm not surprised that I was disappointed that I'm not terminally ill, but I'm concerned because it should surprise me. I should be concerned that I'm disappointed that I don't have cancer.

I should be leaping for joy and embracing life with newfound zeal. But instead, that's how I reacted when the possibility was hanging out there prior to the CT. I was relieved and elated at the possibility that finally, finally there would be something concrete, something certain and real in my life. It solved a lot of problems and answered a lot of questions...and helped me prioritize.

When you think you're dying, living becomes a lot easier.

Or, in my case, when you have reason to hope you're dying, dealing with life becomes a lot easier.

This is, of course, all a very, very sad reflection on my life(?). I have no job, just spent two and half months jumping through hoops interviewing for a job that I didn't get, and I have no prospects for a job. I have no romance or even bored complacency with a significant other, and no prospects for romance (or even bored complacency) with a significant other, further, I have successfully removed all interest in love. And other than my mother, I have no meaningful relationship with anyone. My friends...well, I mean, I have a few very good friends, but we're separated by very long distances and, yes, of course we still care about each other, we call and email, but day-in, day-out, we're unable to cultivate the relationships. And yes, I know a lot of people, I have used-to-be friends who've drifted to acquaintances and they're "around" but I dunno. With notable rare exceptions, unless I call or email I don't hear from them.

So, I have no money, no significant other, no job, no kids, soon-to-be no home, and very few friends. I'm a loser, baby. And I can find no way to change any of that - I've tried, I've tried really, really, really hard. I have gone many extra miles in every one of those capacities and all I have to show for it is a worn out pair of sneakers, a broken heart, more confusion, disillusionment, and an empty bank account.

Hence my relief at the possibility of a "get out of life free" card in the form of cancer.

And my disappointment and frustration when that possibility was removed.

You know you've made some really bad life choices when you hear yourself thinking or saying:

Crap. I'm not dying.

Crap. Now what? 

Well, in the immediate I can either borrow more money to get a couple more tests, or, just forget about it, deal with the pain and the symptoms until they either diminish or increase to the point that I want to borrow money to do something to treat them. I'm leaning toward the latter.

I know, I know, just one phone call could change everything. One phone call from someone offering me a job would turn my situation at least 90° and eventually maybe even 160°. Let's be realistic, though. At this point those odds are as low as the odds of me getting married. Not impossible, but statistically unrealistic. Not dismal; bleak.


Crap. I'm not dying. Now what?

Let's play a game.

Pretend this is 2011. Not much of a stretch because it is 2011, so far so good, right?
Now pretend you are single. (Really single. Re-virginated single.)
And you are unemployed and have been unemployed for two years.
And your financial resources are completely depleted (you have $24.63 to your name).
And you have sold everything you owned that held any monetary value including your blood.
And you're squatting in your former home waiting for the bank to kick you out.
And you have few (or no) true, reliable friends within a 1,000 mile radius.
And the only family you have who is remotely accessible/helpful/viable is your handicapped, senior citizen mother who is moving into a senior housing situation where no one under the age of 55 is allowed to stay more than 2 weeks.
Oh, and you have no car, just a bus pass with three rides on it, an old broken-down bicycle and some sneakers for transportation.
Oh, and your passport is about to expire and the renewal fee is $110.

You do have:
College degrees (plural, advanced).
15+ years of career experience related to your degrees (plural, advanced).
A reasonably well-functioning laptop.
A reasonably well-functioning camera.
A Starbucks gift card with $8.32 on it.
750,422 air miles on three different airlines (keep in mind there is a minimum $150 "booking fee" to use air miles for a plane ticket). 

You want a job, you need money, soon you will have no place to live, and you have no one to rely upon but yourself. 

What do you do?

I'm not asking for suggestions. I'm begging for help. Short term suggestions are welcomed, but because I'm not dying (crap) I need a long term solution.* I've exhausted all of the options/ideas I can mine out of my head and: Nothing, no results. Which of course means I'm not clever enough to find a solution on my own. My attempt at the whole "independent career gal" thing is a bust and I'm not exactly trophy wife material, and I've tried to achieve all of the options in-between that I can brainstorm. Nothing. And now that I've ruled out possibility of the luxury of terminal illness I have to figure out my life beyond the next 6 - 9 months. So. Any and all ideas are hugely appreciated.*

*A solution that doesn't include internet porn or prostitution. I know, I know if I were truly desperate I'd do porn, and don't think I haven't considered it. Here's what I considered: What would you pay for a nip or snatch shot? Right. Not exactly a long term financial solution.

And as for selling other services, like photography or design or online services like data-entry, believe me, I have tried, and am trying, but the income generated is insubstantial. Everyone and their brother and sister and niece and neighbor are trying to sell photography, design, data-entry services, etc. online. The internet is a great marketplace, but the competition is fierce and the money to be made is minimal and short term.

** And yes, yes, I know, it's crucial to have, or at least project, a positive, undepressed attitude. Positive attracts positive. Believe me, I know. And I have maintained a pretty darned positive attitude, or at least hopeful and optimistic with an accurate level of confidence in my abilities and career experience in terms of my job hunt. Truly. People remark on it. Family, acquaintances, former coworkers...people tell me they're inspired by my positive outlook and resiliency. And I have been told over, and over, and over, and over again by interviewers and HR people that they really like me, and for the most part they seem to genuinely respond favorably to me. But it comes down to me and one other candidate and that one other candidate has more industry-specific experience or whatever, some one tiny little professional edge over me, to get them the job. And in the rejection calls I'm always professional and say something like, "I understand, it's crucial for your brand/project/whatever that you have the right people on the team. It's great you found someone, please keep me in mind for future opportunities." I've managed to say that with warmth and sincerity that would impress Ghandi. So. While I'm depressed and melancholy in this forum, in real life I have been almost disturbingly positive and resilient.


2:30 PM

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