Dreams of Nightmare Jobs

I've been broke for most of my life. Ten years ago it was a chore to dredge up enough money to go out for a decent meal. Nothing's changed. I think I might be the problem. Then again, I've also been told I don't fit in. Not fitting in means I've got to somehow come up with my own means of success. Somehow I don't think this success will arrive in my lap by sitting around on my unfinished patio reading pithy books about traveling families: The Laments.
My stepdad bought me a wrought iron table for my patio recently, because the winds took my plastic table and completely demolished it. The new one's nice. Anyway, I had to pick it up from the neighbors, who then mentioned a job as a book keeper for a local tile company. That night I had a dream about the job.
It started by walking in to the dark, air-conditioned building. The wife of the owner was a good-looking curly blonde of average height, with a perfectly proportioned nose. She took me in to the office, which was a converted closet, where the computer sat underneath some overhanging clothes.
The computer was small, like an original MacII, the kind where the screen is about the size of a modern-day in-dash GPS. The brain was sluggish, and they were still operating with floppy discs. The screen was blurry, and the program was nothing I'd ever heard of. She mentioned that the dress-code was from some obscure clothing line that fit, fashion-wise, somewhere between the Gap and Old Navy.
I sat down to punch in a few numbers, staring at the minute, glacoma-inducing screen with dread that hung over my shoulders like the dark rack of clothing just over my head. Within minutes I stood up and told her I couldn't do this unless they purchased at least a new screen. She said it wasn't in the budget. I told her the job wasn't in my budget. Which is why I'm still broke.