Suckfest 2016

2016 had struck again. 

What I can only describe as the sudden landslide that was my bad luck had reared its ugly head once more and with an almighty swing it had decimated one of my three jobs. The one that was not necessarily my favorite, but certainly the one that I considered to be my "career opportunity" job. And with the first year of my 30s creeping in (in what felt like a deathly, deft sprint, at the unsure age of 27-and-three-quarters), "career-opportunity" was something that seemed to "really matter" to me. 

How did it happen? The same way it had began; via a friendly text message from my boss. Sure, he had the courtesy to blame the final decision on financial instabilities in the still-young company, but I knew immediately. It was me. I had failed. Again.

How does this happen to a person? And just what exactly was I supposed to do with all this free time? Scrolling the bottomless pit that is Instagram only goes so far, and Facebook had lost all appeal quickly with the compelling combination of politics and an unhealthy amount of social media upkeep for two out of my three jobs. It had gotten to the point where I could - at any given moment on any given day, silence my phone for 15 minutes of work, reopen it, and the app would once more be filled to the brim with notifications. Tens of them. None of them my own. It had become 60% work, 40% irritating, and 0% fun. 

So with social media out of the way, what else was there? I had cycled through my medium selection of fiction books recently, having recently decided to be thrifty; 2 new jobs working for tips in Lewiston with a third straining to even clock in 6 hours a week did not a concrete paycheck make. This month, December, 2016, was the first full month where I had only my 3 new jobs to depend on (in a related note, this variable created what I would acknowledge to be the single lengthiest month I had ever experienced). Other than reading and sweating profusely as the date to pay the mortgage crept closer, the only art I had really been practicing was the art of making the best homemade cold-brew coffee. With what could be described as easily the cheapest coffee available at the local supermarket, that is, without tasting completely of cardboard and must. 

Yes, it had seemed I had been making very clever decisions. Foregoing my daily Venti Starbucks for that of my own creation, staying in instead of going out, not spending all of my money on gas by only traveling to work, the bank, the grocery store and back (an especially difficult feat during the holiday season). I pushed myself to stay positive, as per usual, treated everyone with the utmost respect, worked hard, picked up shifts whenever possible. And yet here I was. Down not only a job, but also a car, a boyfriend, and what I could only assume to be an enormous amount of money. With a fuel-oil bill on the way.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

* * *

Everyone had warned me; "2016 is the worst year", "I can't believe how bad everything is", "I'm moving to Canada" etc. And as they warned, I shook my head kindly, danced through the rainbow that was my life, and sang Broadway classics. Everything was not bad; it was great! In November, I had been living in my trailer since May of this year, May also marked the one-year anniversary of my relationship with my dream guy, my car was running just fine (with snow tires from just last year in my shed at the ready), I had been hired in a flash at 2 new waitressing/bar tending gigs (which, naturally, I took as "a sign from God": that here was where I was supposed to be), I was on the way out of my last job that had run its course (my last day on Thanksgiving, how appropriate), and I had solidly found the best, most peaceful, quickest route from my new place to Starbucks. Life was, by definition, good. I had been so blissful that I had even cut back on smoking (3 a day!).

By the time I hit mid to late November, I had gotten a friendly text from one of my sister's friends who had created a brewery in Lewiston. It was a job offer! He wanted me to meet with him and his business partner so we could discuss me being a Product Ambassador! I would essentially be setting up tastings at bars, grabbing samples of the brewery's beer products, and bringing them over to said restaurant to taste and discuss. The end result, of course, being that hopefully I had done my job well enough that I could schedule the brewery boys to deliver a keg or five to said restaurant. Get their name out there a little more, make them a little money, and make a little myself. And working hard for these two boys was more than my pleasure. I don't recall the text I received that day, but I do believe I recall doing what could be categorized as a "victory dance". On top of everything else? I had a "career opportunity"! All-too aware of my own mortality, I had decided early on that I did not wish to be the 90-year-old waitress/bartender that hadn't known when to quit and was no longer relevant as much as she was irrelevant, irritating and all-around unappetizing. Who, more than likely, only still had the job due to the exponentially deepening sadness of the situation. Although I wouldn't mind the blue hair.

By Thanksgiving, my last day at my old job, I had decided that all my stress would surely be coming to an end. Walking out at the end of that shift, I imagine I felt the way everyone in that situation would have; 'This is it. I've clocked out. I am officially free. no more [enter example of being taken advantage here], no more dealing with [enter name of biggest pain-in-the-ass here], I'll never have to come back here again!!!! YOU DON'T OWN ME, ANYMORE, [enter company name here]!!!!!'. Give or take a few exclamation marks (I'm leaning on the side of give). 

Yes, I was finally free of all the bologna. Little did I know my slate had been wiped clean only to pile an insurmountable pile of horse shit atop my very soul. To say the least, I'm smoking again. Habitually.