Pick up

Most people I know, I've been unemployed the entire time they've known me. When I was in school, unemployed. Out of school, unemployed. And yet, my own flat. Food every day. Alcohol when we get together. Clothes on my back. They'll ask me, they'll ask how I have money. Odd jobs here and there, I'll say, like condom swallowing.

In my hallway there's a pile of envelopes. Visa. Visa. Mastercard. The bank. Mastercard. Hydro. Gas. A note from my janitor telling me my rent is due. A bill for two years back rent from my former webhosts. Every once in a while I have to restack them after they tumble down into a variation on fifty-two pick up.