I just got off the phone with my dad, after telling him I got laid off last week.  While it felt momentarily cathartic to tell him, considering I’d been hiding it for almost two weeks while I tried to get another job (I haven’t), I kicked myself after hanging up.

Nearly every phone conversation I have with my dad includes some mention of money, which is pretty standard I guess, but increasingly uncomfortable as the years go on.  He is wholeheartedly supportive of my chosen career (or rather, the unpaid improv shows and plays which we will now politely refer to as a career) but with the economy in the toilet, he has been more and more inquisitive about my sources of income.

The job I got laid off from was a temp job, which I had  nonetheless held for more than a year.  While it was pretty easy and afforded me the opportunity to dick around and work on other acting-related things, it inevitably became a chore, and also, paradoxically, a crutch.  It made it so I didn’t have to look for an actual job, which I’m more than qualified for, and let’s face it, NEED, to keep living the way I live.

One special humiliation in an otherwise tolerable temp job was: While I was there, I designed and administered a benefits program for the rest of the employees.  (I myself was always ineligible for benefits, being a temp.)

I know the economy sucks, but anyone who tells you they enjoy temping must either  A) have zero self-esteem, or B) have low intelligence.  After more than a year of service (and really, I was a good employee, if not a model one), I was cut with less than a week’s notice.

So anyway, I told my dad, and he’s worried now.  It feels great to be 25 and still have your dad fretting about you being able to take care of yourself.  Fuck temp jobs.

I’d write more, but I’m slated to perform in a SKETCH REVUE tonight for my usual fee of zero dollars, and I must to the theatre!

This is Thomas writing a post.

I don’t have a penis.

Ha ha.

I do.  It’s just small.