The job search thus far is sending me in either one of two directions: alcoholism based on severe despair and anxiety, or total homicidal killing rampage. It's still up in the air.

The thing about the job search is, you evidently have to be qualified for things. You need some super special degree in something that sounds interesting and smart, some portfolios and specialties and a list of jobs for important people, and possible a resume custom made for Donald Trump but with your name on it.

I have an English degree.

You know what you're qualified for when you have a Bachelors degree in English?

Teaching English in Asia.

Not even in the States, because to teach here you need a certificate, no, if you want to teach at all, or do anything with English at all, it has to be in freaking Asia.

I just got back from Asia. I would gladly return, except my father would lo jack my ass.

So here I sit, applying for job after job after job after job, wondering when that last little bit of sanity will break and I'll run screaming from the house with a katana in one hand and a sawed off shotgun in the other.

So there's something to be said for recovering one's health while getting back on one's feet. Sleeping in every day, getting on the computer, job searching, doing work, fiddling around random web pages and googling pictures of alpacas.

Up to a point.

And then one reaches said point, and wants to get the hell out of the house. By "one" here I mean me. However, because I have been gone for three years, my family has taken over the two (out of five, because we are redneck) functioning vehicles (my car being one of them) to use for work. Because they have real jobs. So they get priority.

And I get stuck in a small town, with no transportation, and deep, intense desire to either run screaming down the street with my head on fire, or smash my face through the computer screen.

I believe this is called going stir crazy?

It is aided by my sister's cat. I'm convinced he's a zombie. He smells dead, he walks gimpy (nerve damage from epilepsy), and he follows me. Everywhere. Thumping along behind me like he's just waiting for my head to get down to bite level so he can eat my brain. He's starting to seriously freak me out.

Right now he's sitting next to me, in his chair. Yes, he gets his own chair. This house was solely his for a year and half, when my family moved in with my dad's girlfriend, and the cat is deeply offended that we've come back and invaded his space, without giving him proper sacrifice.

Sometimes he likes to lie down in the middle of the floor, and meow angrily at anyone who dares to walk over, around, or near him. He moves for no one.

I spend my days waffling between despair of ever finding a real job, and real terror that this cat is patient zero for the zombie apocalypse.