Another day, another tale of frustration with the state Employment Security Department. Yesterday an unemployed construction worker dared me to call the state's unemployment hotline and get a real human. I called, and I couldn't. Today Schuyler Bagwell, an unemployed former city worker who has already tried the game of using the media to get the unemployment department's attention—well, he tries again. Schuyler used to work for Seattle Community Court, trying to help homeless, drug-addicted, and chronically incarcerated people, and was laid off in October.

Instead of immediately looking for another job, I retreated to California where I smoked lots of pot in my old bedroom at my grandmother's house and lived off of my savings account until Christmas. I casually looked for work in November, called in a few favors, but no dice. December was when I called in the troops for an all-out assault on the job market. I would send at least three resumes every working day. Christmas was less than lucrative and I still had to drive back up north. Craigslist was full of nonsensical postings that require an M.A. and five years experience for $28k per year. Monster and CareerBuilder were no better, but I carried on, despite my discouragement.

The new year happened and still no interviews. It had been two years since I'd made a latte or waited a table, but I escalated my resume distribution and went after cafes and restaurants. Nothing. Nobody would even interview me. I tried to apply for unemployment but, as you've heard, it's like Russian roulette trying to talk to a human being over there. I applied for food stamps. I sold my mountain bike, a microwave, and a dead MacBook for some extra cash on craigslist. I wrote depressing fiction and sent it to some small magazines, dreaming some agent would discover me and offer me a six-figure book deal. I applied for some sketchy clinical trials at some place in Tacoma. I reached a point where I was spending more time calling unemployment's 800 number than sending out resumes. While repetitively dialing, I wrote an email to the dailies and the TV stations, hoping some foul media exposure would help me get through. It worked. I had both Rep. Jamie Pedersen and Sen. Ed Murray apologizing profusely to me on the phone the morning after my story aired. ESD told me to fax them some pay stubs and they'd get back to me with their decision. That was three weeks ago. I haven't seen a dime.

My former colleagues downtown wish me plenty of luck and have given me great references, but luck doesn't pay the rent. My contract position was Community Court's first victim of the Financiapacalypse, but annoyingly, they'll always be hiring new cops and jail guards. I had a few good interviews in January but my half-finished college degree and relative lack of experience usually mean I end up at the bottom of the stack. I'm doing my best to fend off agonizing despair and outstanding debt, but time is seriously running out. Out of necessity, I spend hours writing a nauseatingly pandering resume only to get a postcard in the mail two weeks later that begins, "Dear Applicant,".

I want to believe that I'm creative and self-sustainable and enjoying the freedom to smoke a bowl and watch Judge Judy, but I'm not. I'm miserable, and I would do just about anything for the financial security of a steady paycheck, which is what I imagine my former clients feel like every day of their lives.

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