Writer, desperately seeking misery

Seeking one (1) applicant to be strung along indefinitely and futilely in search of a poorly defined job.  Applicant must not: Expect to hear back from us, ever. (pic from www.eustis.org)

Seeking one (1) applicant to be strung along indefinitely and futilely in search of a poorly defined job. Applicant must not: Expect to hear back from us, ever.
(pic from http://www.eustis.org)

So, as it turns out, working 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. five days a week totally sucks.

I know this isn’t really a huge shock or anything.  I’m more surprised that at some point in human history, we decided to develop an entire society around the concept of hard work and sacrifice.  Who thought that was a good idea!?  If it was up to me, we’d work Saturday and Sunday, and then have off Monday through Friday.  No, I haven’t thought about the economic implications of that.  Why do you ask?

Searching for a new job can definitely feel like a lose-lose situation.  In this, you are but a faceless number, one of a million castaways adrift in the sea of poverty, fighting to be rescued by any passing ship.  Except every ship out there has no fruit so you’re guaranteed to get scurvy either way, and most of the crew mates are cannibals.

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There’s nothing to fear but absolutely everything

WELP, time to go hide in a corner for a few days.

WELP, time to go hide in a corner for a few days.

I’m a recluse.  I’ll admit it.  I don’t get out much unless it is to go to work, and even then I have to bargain with myself in the mornings to find motivation to get out of the door.  Despite being in an industry where I interact with humanity on a daily basis, I don’t have many people in Ohio that I trust and visit on a semi-regular basis.

The life of a hermit is a quiet one, full of contemplation and week-long bouts of League of Legends games and month-long bad sci-fi binges.  So, when I logged into WordPress to find that they had somehow found my blog and that I was in line to be featured on Freshly Pressed, I guess you could say I panicked.

And by “I guess you could say I panicked,” I mean “You definitely would have called 911.”

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28

Nothing like a shirt you will wear once to usher in another year of not screwing up being alive.

I turned 28 this month.  For some reason, this birthday has been a hard one for me, which is something that completely blindsided me.  I found myself getting increasingly more depressed, and I actually had to take a good hard look to find out why I was increasingly getting more depressed.  I’ve always been very receptive of growing older.  The crazy, 78-year-old 300 pound man who hangs out at Burger King all day every day is my hero.  “Yes,” I think to myself as I wait for the high school students to grill me up a chicken sandwich.  “Someday, that will be me, spouting insanity about space aliens and talking loudly about my embarrassing medical problems!” It’s going to be pretty fantastic.

But, when 28 finally started rolling around, I just started to get irrationally mopey.  I’m sure everyone has that one moment in their lives when they start to consider where they actually thought they would be fifteen years ago, and then make the mistake of comparing that to where they are in present day.  Sadly, I  started to realize its time for me to give up my dreams of becoming a child prodigy mega genius who also has super powers and can do a back flip.

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Do you remember what you wanted to say?

That post it note has been in this book since 2002. They just don't make post it notes of that quality anymore.

I had a flash of deja vu this month, during an early morning assembly in honor of Constitution Day, which is one of those little known national holidays where we’re supposed to discuss our founding fathers, the importance of the United States Constitution, and the freedoms it allows.  This year, being the tenth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 9/11, shifted the focus somewhat onto that instead, and I found myself stuck in an increasingly long assembly at a local middle school wherein students who didn’t remember Sept. 11, 2001, tried to explain to me what it was.

The event was held in a middle school, because someone figured out if you give tiny American flags to groggy pre-teens and play patriotic music at them, they will eventually wave those flags in an ADD sponsored burst of energy.  The rest of the service included a lot of people talking at the crowd, presentations undoubtedly assigned to the students in history class, and the general feeling that the crowd was just happy to be out of their normal routine.

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Technical difficulties

I’m not used to getting legitimately great ideas during the course of my day.  Well, not the kind of ideas that anyone would really want to listen to.  This usually pans out just fine.  I’m not in a position where people listen to me on a regular basis.  In fact, much of my day involves listening to people instead.  They call me up in the office or approach me when I’m buying Frosted Flakes in IGA, each of them either absolutely convinced that I have wronged them on a fundamentally offensive level, or just wanting me to listen to their sad story and to see if maybe, just maybe I could give them a little front page time?  Maybe just a wee blurb on the bottom of the page, I’d hardly notice it. Continue reading