I don't feel good. My head feels like it weighs twenty pounds and my ears feel weird. That's not a good sign. I don't want to be legitimately sick right now. I'd rather just keep taking Echinecea and Tylenol Cold. I don't want to ever have to find a new doctor. Oh, how I miss the university health center (and that's something that I never thought I'd ever type).
I applied to be the copy editor for Chicagoist. It sounded like a good idea even though it was unpaid. I figured at least then I would have some copy-editing experience. Unfortunately, their idea of copy-editing involves me reading the blog several times a day just in case one of the contributors used "your" instead of "you're." That's not copy-editing.
Also, I called the temp agency to talk to Agnes. She had nothing for me, as usual, although chatted with me about how I lost my phone last week ("I did that once, and I was just thrown-off for a week!"). She thanked me for checking-in and told me to "keep doing what I'm doing." I wanted to break the pretense of our friendly, casual conversation and yell, "Look, what I'm doing is obviously not working. I haven't been able to find a job in six months. You haven't really helped me in the five months I've been in contact with you. Stop bullshitting me."
Lucky for me, I do get to work inventory at Urban tomorrow. At the Woodfield Mall. In Schaumberg. Some girl is picking me up at 4:30 in the morning to give me a ride.
I'm so close to just admitting defeat that it's not even funny anymore. I'm out of ideas, I'm losing patience, and I'm really, really disappointed with myself.