I was born under the warmth of your sunlight back in 1969. I was educated here, I’ve worked here, and have paid my share of taxes to you as well.
This year, however, that sunlight as grown a little dim as I have fallen on hard times by losing two jobs. As such, I have reluctantly resorted to apply for public assistance in order to feed my family.
That alone has been an ordeal in itself: workers that haven’t got a clue, day after day of phone-tag, endless phone calls to the wrong people.
And yesterday, without my knowledge, I learned that my case had been moved from one district to another. Not only that, but I was informed that my paperwork stated I had too much income to qualify for food stamps. Keep in mind I worked a total of 2 hours this month before being let go from my job.
When I tried to call the string of phone numbers to get an answer, not one person was willing to help. Instead, I was given yet another phone number to call and then another and yes, another. And on one call I was even told in a sarcastic manner by a worker, “So why are you calling here?” Because that was the number I was told to call, YOU WORTHLESS BITCH?
As of now I have no answers for anything.
It boggles my mind that you would keep someone with that kind of attitude on your payroll, someone who can’t even handle a phone call correctly or can’t deal with the public, yet an educated individual like myself can’t even get hired for a seasonal position at Target’s Christmas tree lot.
What’s even more upsetting is that this California native did the right thing: he worked and provided for his family, all born in the United States. He’s got the willingness to work and make things better for his family yet your DPSS offices are filled with non-U.S. citizens waiting for their gravy train to come rolling in.
Strangely, they all seem to get what they need once they flash their Resident Alien card while your native son still sits frustrated, head in his hands, wondering what exactly he did wrong. This is the same guy—a Hispanic guy, by the way—who used to make $50k a year doing something other than picking fruit or day laboring, and now he can’t even get a simple answer regarding his claim. Imagine that.
And what burns me still is that once I do get back to work, my tax dollars will continue to fuel a broken system run by incompetent workers and be taken advantage of by people who weren’t even born here. This truly is the Land of Opportunity, unless you happen to be a U.S. native.
Maybe it’s time for me and the family to pack up and move to Mexico so we can take advantage of their welfare system. I’m sure their government would be more than happy to have just a few U.S. citizens leeching off their wonderful system designed to help their country’s natives.
It’s been a day of endless phone calls, frustration, tears. I did manage to get a hold of my local State Representative to file a complaint about how my case is being handled because, as of now, there ain’t much left in my fridge and I’ve got a zero balance on my EBT card. And I’d like some answers.
But you know what? To save me the aggravation, I’m not even going to pursue your assistance anymore. No, I don’t want your fucking help anymore because it seems you’re more willing to help those in real need, like the ones I saw at the DPSS office with their Roca Wear jeans, UGG boots and Ed Hardy shirts—and can’t speak a lick of English.
I’ve decided that it’s just not worth the trouble to ask for help if you’re a U.S. citizen, and I thank God my father served in the Army and fought in Korea so that my family can be denied the wealth of freedoms and benefits all those illegal aliens so easily get handed to them on a daily basis.
Rest in peace, Dad. You fought a good battle.
It’s at a time like this when I no longer wonder why I stopped going to church. There’s no point in putting your faith in anything, especially an Invisible Sky Wizard or Flying Spaghetti Monster, when what you encounter here on Earth shows no sign of progressing or improving.
And all things considered, it wouldn’t be too outlandish to think that the last days of my life will not be spent in a state whose system refused to help me at a time me and my family needed it most.
I may have been born here, but I probably won’t be dying here. No, I’d rather go peacefully elsewhere without having to recall the problems I encountered the one and only time I needed a handout, and where my corpse won’t be a burden to anyone.
Just lay my carcass in the cold, cold ground of a state that might want me to be there. Let it decompose and feed some worms in Montana or Minnesota because at this point, I don’t even want my rotting flesh to act as California mulch.
But if I do happen to die here, I will have a stipulation in last will and testament to bury me ass-up, and to make sure I have the state’s flag on my headstone so that California can metaphorically kiss my ass, perpetually and for all eternity.
Thanks for nothing, State of California. Thanks for absolutely nothing, you fucking clueless assbags.
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