The Danger Of Hope

I’m sitting here, and I’m wondering about hope.

I’m also mildly intoxicated (two beers, but one of them was a 13-14% one that was like drinking cheap cold medication but it was free beer, and free beer is never had at a loss except when you dump the penalty weight), so there’s a certain kind of oddness to the thoughts.

Hopefully, the last sixteen months of quarantine and stay-in-place and “flatten the curve” will be coming to an end. Or at the very least, we can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it isn’t a genetically engineered cat bunghole.

Hopefully.

What does this mean for me? Looking for a new job, got a second interview last Thursday and maybe some help to get another job by an “on the job training program” for a second job. My optimism isn’t high in both cases, but I didn’t expect to get a second interview for one job. Who knows at this point and time in my life?

I still have some time on my unemployment, barring something weird happening. But, “something weird happening” has described the last sixteen months for me. Change is always weird. Even change that is welcome and wanted. And, while the jobs that I’m looking for aren’t my ideal jobs, my ideal jobs might only exist in my imagination or in a world two or three generations ago.

Still, hopefully.

Hope is dangerous, isn’t it? I’ve been in relationships that I should have given up on much earlier, because of it. Because of the sunken cost fallacy. Because you hope that next toss of the dice will let you win.

But, still…you have to hope.

The alternatives are not enjoyable. I’ve been the alternatives and they aren’t fun. No thank you.

Writing is going as well as can be expected. I’m doing a bit of a diversion into a short story/novella project that’s set after A Roman Solist and before book #4. Not sure where it’ll go-or if it can go anywhere. But, I need to write it.

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