A Fortnight on the Dole, or the American Equivalent thereof

Two weeks ago today, I left my place of employment for the last time. My backpack held a folder full of documents pertinent to my departure:

  • Three checks: one for the last pay period, one for my last day, which fell in a different pay period, and one for the two-plus weeks of accrued PTO. All three checks deposited within five minutes of leaving the building.
  • A copy of my severance agreement, which stipulates, among other things, that I cannot divulge the contents of said agreement.
  • Instructions for signing up for unemployment. I took care of this the next morning.
  • Instructions for signing up for COBRA for when my medical-insurance coverage runs out after 30 days. I’ll probably take care of this at the last possible moment.

My idea of hitting the ground running was to go hit a bar right away. I even had some whiskey, not a lot, just enough to make me regret it. It takes a lot less whiskey to trigger regret. The same rule applies to a lot of things.

The last two weeks have been mostly uneventful, an existence made up in large part of food, beer, coffee, and Netflix. This wouldn’t be a bad way to go if I were independently wealthy and completely lacked ambition or a work ethic.

To be fair, I haven’t been a complete slug. I had a job interview and wrote a new piece of flash fiction. The story turned out to be pretty good, the interview not so much. I figure it’s a lot better to screw up a job interview than it is to screw up an actual job. That’s sound wisdom. All I need now is a job to put that to the test.