Random Chaos

In my head today: Vicarious Atonement

It's happened.

The rent adjustment meeting used the data from the busiest fall we've ever had, and had no data from what is becoming more and more the slowest winter I've ever seen. I've worked a single day this week—and would have had two if I hadn't had to take off for the damned adjustment meeting.

But I did.

As rent was late—I was ill the day I thought I paid it, and hallucinated the action—I had to take the money that would have been an emergency food budget for the week and spend it on the late fee.

There is enough for lights.

There is enough for the phone bill.

There is enough to stay connected and not have to face the isolation that paralyzes me every time I think about it.

There is enough for rent if it doesn't go up, at the least, if there are enough hours by payday next.

…there is not enough money to eat. I can't spend anything but what is there for the next rent. I have enough stashed to survive December thanks to the physical inability to actually eat much more than a sandwich a day, but I'm going to have to come up with something. That meeting confirmed that I have no EBT benefits—and I don't make enough money to bills and food at the same time.

There is not enough money for next month's bus pass—a $78 expense—unless I risk not having enough for rent, or attempt to pick up odd jobs on a flareup, risking a hospital trip. Hell, today my legs lit on fire from an attack and I had to walk a room on feet that burned and legs that were absent from hip to shin. I was given the option to work tomorrow or not—apparently I looked bad after the pain attack.

…not that I have a choice.

I fucking hate the winter grind.

But rest is a luxury I literally can't afford right now.

This is life at the bottom. This is what you live with when making more money means you keep less of it. When you pick between bills and food.

When you spend the first half of the year stocking the shelves because you know damn well what is going to happen.

When you see an upside in the disease they've been trying to nail down for—shit, officially a year next week—because it means you have more time to figure out what the hell you're going to do about the new problem of eating.

…I'll figure something out. Maybe.

Possibly.

Perhaps.

At least the medicine I need hasn't been cut off.