Despite the criticism I unleashed last week regarding the “Back to Work Program” at Goodwill Industries, I have changed my attitude towards this so-called charity and will forevermore write and speak highly of this institution that has rescued me from all my despair.
Just getting up at the crack of dawn and reporting somewhere before the roosters and cackling hens of corporate America perch themselves on ladders and lay more bubble-graphs to prove unnecessary business points has proven to be beneficial to my spirits. I feel that I am part of society again—no longer wasting my time in the heavily wooded sections of Prospect Park—sucking off strangers just to get something warm in my stomach!
Poverty is hell, but there are ways to survive on this $170 in food stamps the state of New York offers to battered queers. One must attend mandated programs, like that at Goodwill Industries if they want food stamps though.
Being fully dressed in pressed work clothing at sharply at nine a.m. – for no pay from the state whatsoever– has strengthened my resolve. I have learned to hate society with a smile across my face now. An air of politeness has overtaken my once battered nine- to- five face.
Four weeks at Goodwill Industries has reinvigorated my will to work hard again—even a job at Starbucks will do. I have decided that I will not become a welfare-supported writer, but rather will take my place in the trenches once again and will work side-by-side by commoners for the sake of the company that is found at a place we all need—a job.
The dark depression that has withered the roots of my soul for the past seven years has finally lifted. Today I am happier than I have been in nearly a decade thanks to Goodwill.
Not since the days prior to my hospitalization for schizophrenia has my sprit been so joyous—it only goes to show what a few good men can do to brighten the day of one so depressed for so long.
For the past seven years I have worked in a clinic on Park Avenue. I was the only male in the clinic—a gay one—a male none the less—and the bitches nearly killed me, or at least almost sent me back to the psychiatric ward! But these handsome men at Goodwill—forgot what they were like—such gentle creatures men are in dress shirts and ties—freshly shaven and on the down and out like myself. Almost want them to kiss me here in my black tie.
I see now after four weeks at Goodwill and the entire summer of 2009 spent on my knees in a public park why I couldn’t snap out of that depression.
In this bright new day before all I see are men—hunky, unkempt, unemployed but handsome as ever—men.
Men to die for.
Men to work alongside.
Men to bring out of closets they never knew they had!
If necessary to earn a living, I may become a layer of bricks just to get my hands dirty next to the men again.