Thanks for the trip, Johnny's -- sorry you couldn't stay afloat

Lost one of my best friends, my girlfriend, and now my job. What a fucking year this has turned out to be. Does that complete the triad of loss, the old adage about trouble coming in threes? Cause I'd hate to think what else might be coming down the pike for me. Maybe this stab of pain I'm getting in my lower right abdominal area every thirty seconds will turn out to be the symptom of some terminal illness.

So the bakery went under. As of the end of this month, I will be unemployed. I'm sad, not just for me, but for the others. Strange, but I get sentimental about it. It represented a lot to me - security, a certain amount of self respect, a life, what I lacked before, what lifted me up to something a little better than my prior larval voidful existence. As such, I had warm feelings for the people I worked with (even though we didn’t socialize) and even the business itself. I had a sense of loyalty. I was treated nicely, they let me listen to my music all night.

The job was a modest position, and a drag sometimes, but ultimately a far more tolerable way to earn a living than I'd allowed myself to hope for during my endless, futile, degrading job search, dreading as I was all sorts of potential service sector stress I was thankfully spared as a breadpacker. The search was futile because it wasn't looking that got me the job, but rather my dad knowing the manager. Thus, I lucked out. But it couldn't last.

All I can think about is how much I hate capitalism. And markets. All I see in this society is deliberately engineered unsustainability. On all levels. Resources, communities. Who cares about people, institutions? Tear them down, bring in the big box bastards or let some poor hopeful entrepreneur move into the vacancy and try her lottery venture, see how long she lasts, my money’s on two weeks at best. I find it so depressing. People just take for granted this desperate way of life. Grab what you can from whatever opportunity you can get a toe-hold on, then scrabble rat-like to the next. Some people like hustling I guess. Some people got the frequency for that. The people who profit from it, obviously, and the people who take pleasure from the game. I’m not a player, which leaves me profoundly out of place.

Well, three hours later, I continue this entry. With cottonballs taped to my arm and wrist. Just got back from the hospital.

The stab of pain. I still don’t know what it is but it’s not severe. Just weird and disturbing, provoking my hypochondria. My dad said I should go to the hospital and ask about it. So I did. Before I went, I started thinking about appendicitis, and got that queasy feeling I get, being so squeamish about body malfunction and disease anywhere my ego is attached. I couldn’t even take the symptom quiz, because I got nauseas and felt faint. I thought I’d be okay if I just breathed it out. So I went to the emergency room to see if they could tell me what my mysterious pains might be about. See if I might have to get anything removed.

I started talking to the nurse, answering questions. Then the ridiculous feedback loop began. Not fear of anything specific, but fear of fear. The fear. Because this has happened before. Loss of control. My vision blacked out. I was conscious but I couldn’t see anything. I could feel nothing but an overwhelming dread. It’s a feeling I know well, but can never deal with. Panic attack, I guess. Lost a few seconds of consciousness. They put me in a bed, put an IV in me, gave me saltwater, took my blood. I tried to tell them I'd just had one of my stupid ridiculous flip-outs but they wanted to keep me there a while. So they did. I felt pretty silly. They don’t know what the pain might be, but it’s not severe enough to warrant extra attention.

Interesting experience though. As soon as the panic attack wore off, I felt perfectly calm, just embarrassed. Once I get over that spike of terror, I’m okay – it’s the kinetics leading up to it that plunge me into the abyss. It’s a farce that must unfold, in the same absurd order, every time, triggered by the abstraction of mental and physical disorders and the feedback loop it sets off in my brain. I’ve still got those stupid little pains, but I guess there’s no need to freak out about them.

Well, what to do? What to do but get serious about music, I guess. Get off the night shift. Get on scales and sight-reading. Get a goddamn band, if I can.