In 1995 a star was born.
Not just any ordinary twinkling star, but one that lit the vacuum of space so spectacularly, space itself couldn’t handle it and launched the star onto a little rock floating in the outer arm of a solar system called the Milky Way.
It was aiming for Andromeda, but space doesn’t have good hand-eye coordination. You wouldn’t either if you didn’t have hands. Or eyes.
It was me. I was the star.
Not really, but I was born in 1995. In 1997, I made 8,187 dollars.
The social security office is a little perturbed by this fact to. I must have been one hardworking two year old. Or a star from outer-space with special powers.
Someone in Tacoma, Washington used my social security number 18 years ago and this is the reason the credit union will not open my account without a summary of benefits. I’ve signed the paper work necessary to get the earnings off of my record so I can open a bank account, but the social security man suggested I also get a credit report to make sure I they didn’t take out a loan on a house or buy a car under my Social Security number. If they did, I’ll have to file a police report for an 18 year old theft in order for the government to expunge it all from my record.
I’ll call out the Bank Wells Fargo right now; it took Bay Federal Credit Union five minutes to find this fraud. Wells Fargo never even saw it. No wonder they couldn’t set up my account correctly. They called all the way to India and still couldn’t find the problem. Why would I trust them to hold my money when they can’t even read a computer screen correctly?
My mother thinks perhaps the person made a mistake in writing down their social security for a new job, which could absolutely be the case, but I’m thinking there was some crazy conspiracy going on where people got a hold of infant and toddler social security numbers, then took loans out and made money. Think about it, it’s perfect: what two year old is going to have the cognitive ability to get a credit report or apply for a bank account? They’ve got at least fourteen to eighteen years before they’re found out.
Those people in Tacoma, Washington messed with the wrong two year old. If you’re reading this, I know you know who you are. I don’t know who you are, but I will look for you. I will find you. And I will . . .
Smack the fuck out of you.
Then take back my 8,187 dollars. Where the fuck did you work, in a cafe? Minimum Wage? Sucking off the manager for some extra tips?
I hope you bought a car, because I want that shit too. It better not be a Ford, I swear to God I’ll smack you again. If you bought a house I expect a vacation room for me and my boyfriend whenever we want to visit. Apparently this is Tacoma, Washington:
I’d vacation the hell out of that place.
I want those nasty tips you made too.
Mistakes happen, I understand. But it’s very simple to pay attention. You have a card with your number on it. Copy it from your card. It’s not rocket science. It’s not calculus. It doesn’t even take algebra, it just takes you to have some common sense to look at your card and copy the numbers.
At any rate, tomorrow I start my new job. One of my friends also starts at the same time, so we’re meeting up and enduring hell together. It won’t be hell for him, he’s excited, but for me the first of anything is hell. The first day of class is hell, the first time talking to someone is hell, the first time stepping into the lobby of my apartment complex was hell. It’s all just one big hell.
I’m great friends with Satan though. Did you know he loves Plush stuffed animals? Particularly the monkeys. Don’t tell him I told you that.
He’s always loved monkeys more than humans. Makes sense.
I prefer routine to anything. Satan calls me crazy but what does he know?
It’s a way to keep my anxiety from sky-rocketing, it’s a coping mechanism. I don’t like taking my own breaks, I like my breaks and lunches to be scheduled. I like to be constantly reassured that what I’m doing is right. I need an outside source to boost my confidence.
So I consider myself very dependent.
I am independent physically; I get up in the morning, I dress myself, I drive myself places, I go to my own interviews, I talk to the Social Security people by myself, I make phone calls by myself if it’s an absolute necessity; there are many things I do by myself. But emotionally, I’m not a full person. I can’t trust my emotions, I can’t trust what my brain interprets from my body and it makes it difficult to trust anything my body feels.
This is partly why I’m shoving myself back out into the job world. I can’t be emotionally stunted for the remainder of my life, it’s not feasibly. It doesn’t fit my personality. It doesn’t fit how I want to live my life. And because I can’t depend on anyone else to pull me out of the woods for this one, it looks like I’ll have to do it on my own.
I have traces of an obsessive personality, I have some issues with post traumatic stress (like when our clock dings every hour and it sounds like a hospital heart monitor and every time I hear it, it throws some serious panic through my system so I try not to be around it on the hour), and I have some attention deficit problems. That’s all intertwined with my depression and other anxiety disorders. It’s all a result of how my brain thinks and what I’ve experienced through my life and the only way to tame it (without succumbing to feeling sorry for myself) is to throw myself into the fire.
Satan said he’d give me a fireproof suit to help quell the flames’ scorch but really, who trusts Satan? He’ll probably just throw some oil on me.
We’ll laugh about it later. Then I’ll hit him on the back of the head with a 2 by 4.
My humor is dark. It’s what keeps life so bright.