LIFE AT THE OKEY DOKE HOMELESS VETERANS SHELTER & DUDE RANCH
Okay. I'm done with community service and I'm done with Transition One classes here at the vets' dorm (aka US Vets, Inc.). Now I'm in Transition Two: job search.
I was assigned a career counsellor. I told her I wanted something with a lot of autonomy. She heard "auto" and now my career goal is auto parts delivery driver.
I suspect my bipolar bretheren vets are being placed on arctic career paths by this same career counsellor (North Pole, South Pole, what difference does it make, they're bi-polar for Pete's sake!?).
Good thing I didn't go in to that career counsellor meeting acting truculent or I might have found myself working on a big rig headed for Kansas or some such thing.
I guess you've noticed that I'm not holding out much hope that my veterans shelter career counsellors will actually find me work. They couldn't even form a committee to organize a search party to find their own miserable careers, for chrissakes!
What my homeless shelter counsellors ARE good at, I've noticed, is outweighing each other. One weighs 350 and the other jumps ahead to 375. Both of them have a long way to go to catch up to the official shelter nutritionist, who must weigh 475 if she weighs a pound.
All is well . . . except that my VA doctor got the results back on my blood test last week and it seems that my blood is gelatinous rather than viscous. He left several messages with my RA (Resident Assistant . . . or gatekeeper, or Resident Asswipe, whatever you wanna call it) that I need to get my butt back over to the hospital ASAP to get some SERIOUS blood thinners before I harden up like a chunk of butter in the freezer.
I'm deep in heart attack country. Deep deep.
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