I am going to bitch for just a minute, after which I am going to do my best to keep quiet for longer than a minute.
I don't want a job. I understand that I need one, but that doesn't mean I have to relish the concept of breaking my ass forty hours a week -- or fifty or more. Mom's been unemployed for half a year now and I can easily see why she would want me to support myself. She's running out of money and doesn't see why she should have to pay for her adult daughter. I understand that, I do.
I don't know why her requests are so strange, though. She wants me to get a job for the month and a half before summer classes and then quit. Or she wants me to try a full summer courseload after a year of just shitting around and she wants me to work too. She seems to think that I can just wander out to McDonald's and say at the counter, "Yes, I'd like a job please. No pickles." Of all people, she, in her job search, should know better.
I'm getting sick of telling people that McDonald's wouldn't hire me, but they wouldn't. They gave me a quiz and said I got one two many answers wrong to be considered for hire. I don't know what I said wrong, so I don't know how to answer better in the future. I thought I was perfect when I was obviously far off, so -- so what? So I don't know. So I'm screwed, I guess.
I'm getting fucking tired of being wrong exactly one too many times, too. That keeps happening to me, where if I had just answered one more question right, I'd be golden. But I didn't so I'm dirt.
I'm not dirt. I don't want to be dirt, anyway.