It's this simple: either I find a creditworthy co-signer (or a guardian angel appears), or it's all over. Either our wagon train gets the juice it needs, or one week from tomorrow I'll officially be both unemployed and homeless with $450.00 to my name , pretty completely fucked. It is hard to believe that after five-plus months of planning, I am in the position I am in. I feel like we're up in a plane at 33,000 feet where the fuel has run out, but the inertia will keep us in the air for hours, possibly days, and I have no idea what shape our landing will take.
On top of it all, Jen got a job offer today for a position here in town at Chuck and Don's - a job she really, really wanted. Apparently it didn't work out with the other person and they wanted to hire her on the spot, but Jen had to decline because we're moving.
We hope.
Not being able to sleep or scream, I can only walk through the neighborhood to try to burn off this tension, then come right back to it once I decide to come back home to the packed boxes, the handful of boxes re-opened for cookware and plates, the feeling of complete and utter transition that has dominated this "home" for a month now.
Screaming will not help; must save strength. Must get out and walk with the weather less humid and the outdoor heat tempered, become leaner and meaner, hungrier, more willing and determined to fight and save this opportunity. I am not going to let some faceless assholes steal this dream from me; I am going to find new ways to fight the backsliding. Somehow.
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