There are many reasons why people lose their minds. One of them is due to applying for jobs.

Let's say I've dipped my toes in some strange swimming pools. If there were wrecking yards for jobs, I've found them. But wait, let me back up here. Most people are not creative. They are seemingly content to do ordinary, rather boring work their entire lives. The jobs make them feel secure. Most of these jobs are very low wage positions. The scariest ones pay huge salaries. The same effort is put into applying for most jobs unless your boss is a relative. The employers of generic jobs want people who will stick around. Forever. Thus, they take one look at my resume and say to themselves, 'This guy is way too creative. He might have ideas about our business. We know what we're doing; we don't need trouble-makers.' Why do I even bring this up? Because somebody needs me; somewhere in the world. Right now, even as this blog is read, by you or people like you, some overworked HR Director is sweating profusely, overwhelmed by the process of saying yes to some and no to others. They are weary of playing God. They have mortgages, and other financial obligations.

Even God is weary of playing God. If you want to pity someone, pity God, who has the worst job in the known and unknown universe. Nobody wants God's job. But I digress. We are not god-like beings, and Lord knows, HR Directors are not perfect human beings. No one is having a perfect, wonderful life on Planet Earth. You are not alone. Follow the light. No, not that light, the other light. There. Let me tell you about my recent misadventures in Job-Land. Not long after arriving in this town, slightly north of Seattle, I began a creative flurry of writing. My plan was to sell one of my screenplays, write new ones, do big paintings, talk a publisher into publishing my novels and short stories, play my guitars, eat good food, shower regularly, maybe hit a few tennis balls, wear clean clothes and good shoes, fall in love, raise a family, and retire in Key West or Santa Barbara. The raising a family part is a fib. I've already raised two children. They graduated colleges, got married, and moved far away. My ex-wife has moved on to other married men. No, I only fantasize about starting a new family. Fantasizing is what writers do. We invent other realities.

The most recent ludicrous job I've applied to is with the Census Bureau. I thought it would be a plausible way to get through the winter. But the government and I will never have a close friendship. I have tried. We dated a bit, and the chemistry wasn't there, so I told the government not to friend me on Facebook or other social media. They texted me day and night. I had to block them. No. Can you spell convoluted? That's the process of applying for government jobs. First, they skewer you, then they slather on the barbecue sauce. Then, just as you are led to believe the job is yours they forget you've applied. Because I write comedies, this should have made me smile. Probably if I ate green cookies everything could be a comedy. But who gets anything done while they're high? Answer: Most of the people in Seattle. Listen: The Census Bureau is run by numbskulls. The Three Stooges were rocket scientists compared to this wing of the Federal Government. The Census Bureau HR people directed me thusly, via a weird phone calls and equally weird emails:

1. What is your name? No, your full name. Huh, that's a funny middle name. Is it your real name?
2. What is your social security number? No, I'm sorry, that's doesn't agree with our records.
3. Yes, that about does it. We'll send an email confirmation, so you can go online and fill in our form. You say you've already filled in the form and submitted it? Sorry, we can't find it. Try again.
4. Upon receipt of the completed form, we will run a background check. We're sorry, you don't exist.
5. We received your application. Great! Now you'll need to go to a MacDonald's at the corner of Third and Furniture, to be fingerprinted. Yes, by the Big Mac machine. We're not sure of the address.
6. Please don't ask me any questions. Just fill out the dang form. I'm a volunteer, okay? Jeez.
7. We're sorry, if you don't return the form within the next week we'll shred your application.
8. Welcome aboard! We're so pleased you're a patriotic American. This census only happens once every ten years! We will carve your name on the trunk of a tree somewhere. Congratulations!
9. What is your name? No, your full name? What's your favorite color? What sign are you?
10. We checked your fingerprints and don't believe you're part of the human race. Goodbye.

I swear, it's a true story. Madness is the norm in the world. Meanwhile, I have begun looking for another part-time or possibly full time job. Possibly teaching English in Siberia or North Korea is for me. If there is no comedy involved, I don't want to waste my time or your time. I will bring my own straitjacket. And my own fingerprints, or someone's fingerprints. And how many people are living in this household? Uh-huh. And, where do all fifty of you sleep? Ah, I see. Is there someone else here I can talk to who speaks English? Are the other people living in this household invisible? I see. You're all fifty of those people? Okay then. Good day to you sir, and madam.