Maybe I have a much more boring life than I originally thought... or maybe originally hoped.
I have yet to find a job. I feel like I should be getting paid to go on interviews, as it seems that I have at least one every day. Of course, I guess, in a way, I am getting paid just to breathe, as I am reaping the benefits of government generosity. I digress. Over and over again, I hear back:
"We thank you for coming in, but we've decided to go a different route. Good luck in your job search."
I actually had a guy call me today, instead of send the conventional e-mail.
Andrew, why did you call? Did you want to hear my voice drop? My stomach twist and turn and my heart fall to the floor, once again, as I wonder (and usually aloud) what, exactly, I'm going to do? Andrew, do you enjoy being a part of my pain? I imagine you probably do. You seemed like such a nice guy this morning... And I'm going to be honest, Andrew, I'd rather hear that I suck and I'm not going to get the job, instead of hearing you tell me that you will call me back to schedule a second interview, then call me back telling me I'm not what you're looking for. Man up, Andrew. Grow some balls, then let's talk project management.
Ah, the frustration has set in, I suppose. I apologize, Andrew. I'm sure you're a nice dude. Excuse me while I over-react.
I think... no, I fear... mostly, that the problem is simple: I'm just bored. The words "bored", "bore", "boring" or "boredom" are all terribly unappealing to me. The thought of being a boring person-- having nothing interesting or useful to contribute to conversation, relationships, someone else's life-- it's honestly a pretty appalling trait to me. The thought that I'm bored in one of the greatest cities in the world really sends me into spins... there's no way this is New York's fault.
Boring people are bored. I remember hearing that phrase relentlessly when I was growing up. Of course, I grew up in small-town Mississippi, where children really do become bored out of their minds during summer break. So much so, that they resort to disastrous children's games, such as racing to see who can kill the most fire ants using only a magnifying glass and the heat of the sun in the middle of July. Ant annihilation does not equal boredom. The point is, we inevitably found ways to entertain ourselves, usually at the expense of the babysitter, and we persevered... isn't there a lesson to be learned here?
I've strayed from my initial subject, which, if you can't tell by this point, I tend to do often... and that can be applied to every aspect of my life, by the way.
I want a job terribly, and I'm not really sure what I'm doing wrong that is preventing me from becoming employed, considering I was offered two jobs within two weeks of moving here one year ago... but I'm scared that my frustration, desperation, boredom is all shining through in my interviews... where's that strong-willed, positive and motivated person I speak of in my cover letter? I might resort to begging tomorrow... at least by the second one.
If I don't get out of this rut soon, I'm destined for disaster.
I apologize to my readers who expect an epic post each time I write. Unfortunately, my life has taken an arid turn, and I can barely scrounge enough emotion out to write a boring post about boredom.
Hang in there, I'll be back soon.
xxM
Showing posts with label summer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label summer. Show all posts
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Heat is Temporarily Infinite
Summer in the city.
Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."
But it's fucking hot.
For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.
In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?
I'm exaggerating. Guilty.
But it's fucking hot.
You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.
Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.
I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.
At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.
And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.
xxM
Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."
But it's fucking hot.
For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.
In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?
I'm exaggerating. Guilty.
But it's fucking hot.
You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.
Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.
I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.
At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.
And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.
xxM
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