Show-Off (Cannon Fodder)
I feel dislocated this morning and when that happens that's when I blast Katy Perry. I don't know what liking something ironically means. Irony is a fancy name for being mean; you were being mean, is what. And so what if that's Joss Whedon, occasionally a few things that aren't drooling idiocy come out of his character's mouths by accident.
November is the worst possible time of my life for me to start trying to write a fucking novel. I've already discovered that I'm not a novelist; I found that out in high school. If I were a novelist I'd be seven books down and at least one published by now.
I am a poet. Published. For money. In those vanity contests nobody's supposed to win? You can't win, but you can place, for money, and you don't have to buy what they sell you.
You never have to buy what they're selling you, unless you want it. And I'm ready to go; lead me into the light. I was having all those socially discontent thoughts, you know, that occur sometimes.
There was a girl in my Ads and Society class who flat out said, "Oh I only have like three Halloween parties to go to this year," and a tiny cruel part of me wanted to clutch her by the shoulders, shrieking, and just shake her until the caps rattled right off her little root canals.
But you know, I was invited out and had to turn people down. It was awkward and dicks for everybody. So. I'm not sure what's better, getting invited or not getting invited. I spent most of college too depressed to even give a damn. The colossal effort of just putting my feet in front of each other to sit in a chair in class kind of absorbed my entire capacity to care.
You know what I miss? Having stuff structured for me. I'd probably be one of those poor schlubs who actually goes to all the office parties. You know the ones. Those perky pod people who inform others that Uh-oh grumpypants, SOMEBODY has a case of the MONDAYS~
That is my natural, actual personality type. Time and death and fists to the face have pretty well stopped it cold. But it's still there, waiting.
I'm really sick of being told I'm not okay. When, when, when will I be okay. When will it be enough.
I don't want anything. If life has taught me one important lesson, it's to stop expecting anything, because the good and the bad will both blindside you, bolt from the blue, and all you can ever do is roll with it. Sometimes you can actually enjoy it, but most of the time it's just an experience. In every pronunciation of the word.
Is that irony? Am I ironic yet.
Parties always feel a little bit like running the gauntlet, anyway. Survive as many interactions as you can possibly stand to blaring music in forty minutes with a bunch of drunk strangers, ONE TWO THREE GO.
God, I don't want to do my homework. Doesn't help that this ad topic is the least interesting thing I could possibly think of in a long time: airbrushing models. It happens. It's always happened. I'm at least going to get to look at trick photography and makeup techniques, two things that fascinate me, in my quest for something that matters and a decent contribution to the group project. I'm already behind them, not because I'm actually behind but just because I can't be fucked to tag into their email sessions. They spend class on their Facebooks talking to their real friends; therefore I'm not obligated to talk to them about their work on a timetable that's convenient for them.
I'm sorry, did you think you were the only ones at the table with an entitlement complex.
At least the other project is fun, and the people who are on it with me are fun, and I actually hang out with them a little bit and that's. Almost what college was supposed to be like, right? I'm doing this right?
I can't tell anymore. I just don't know.
I'm really hoping things went well with the app process for my other Masters. I'll have to start poking at the Rolodex today and call around Monday and also finish this job app; I have everything they want except hard sciences experience. I'm probably their best-fit candidate. But I've thought that about all the other posts.
Yeah, having to listen to the exchange student and the new girl brag about getting the post you've wanted for a full calendar year? It's a little rough, not gonna lie. It could really have done stuff to my self-concept if I let it. Then I remember that we're all going to graduate soon, and we'll all be either baristas or bookstore schills, and then I don't feel so bad.
So yeah. Those things plus renewing my ethics training; I will be so glad to get out of this major and hopefully into the other one, where I won't have to care about the welfare of my clients as people, only about whether they're satisfied with the product and that will be glorious.
Six years later, I have two degrees in human relationships and I'm really fucking sick of people. I'm not sure that wasn't the actual intent of the program. To harden us all to giving a shit, because the world is ugly and not here to hold your hand.
Welcome to adulthood. Try not to get killed.
November is the worst possible time of my life for me to start trying to write a fucking novel. I've already discovered that I'm not a novelist; I found that out in high school. If I were a novelist I'd be seven books down and at least one published by now.
I am a poet. Published. For money. In those vanity contests nobody's supposed to win? You can't win, but you can place, for money, and you don't have to buy what they sell you.
You never have to buy what they're selling you, unless you want it. And I'm ready to go; lead me into the light. I was having all those socially discontent thoughts, you know, that occur sometimes.
There was a girl in my Ads and Society class who flat out said, "Oh I only have like three Halloween parties to go to this year," and a tiny cruel part of me wanted to clutch her by the shoulders, shrieking, and just shake her until the caps rattled right off her little root canals.
But you know, I was invited out and had to turn people down. It was awkward and dicks for everybody. So. I'm not sure what's better, getting invited or not getting invited. I spent most of college too depressed to even give a damn. The colossal effort of just putting my feet in front of each other to sit in a chair in class kind of absorbed my entire capacity to care.
You know what I miss? Having stuff structured for me. I'd probably be one of those poor schlubs who actually goes to all the office parties. You know the ones. Those perky pod people who inform others that Uh-oh grumpypants, SOMEBODY has a case of the MONDAYS~
That is my natural, actual personality type. Time and death and fists to the face have pretty well stopped it cold. But it's still there, waiting.
I'm really sick of being told I'm not okay. When, when, when will I be okay. When will it be enough.
I don't want anything. If life has taught me one important lesson, it's to stop expecting anything, because the good and the bad will both blindside you, bolt from the blue, and all you can ever do is roll with it. Sometimes you can actually enjoy it, but most of the time it's just an experience. In every pronunciation of the word.
Is that irony? Am I ironic yet.
Parties always feel a little bit like running the gauntlet, anyway. Survive as many interactions as you can possibly stand to blaring music in forty minutes with a bunch of drunk strangers, ONE TWO THREE GO.
God, I don't want to do my homework. Doesn't help that this ad topic is the least interesting thing I could possibly think of in a long time: airbrushing models. It happens. It's always happened. I'm at least going to get to look at trick photography and makeup techniques, two things that fascinate me, in my quest for something that matters and a decent contribution to the group project. I'm already behind them, not because I'm actually behind but just because I can't be fucked to tag into their email sessions. They spend class on their Facebooks talking to their real friends; therefore I'm not obligated to talk to them about their work on a timetable that's convenient for them.
I'm sorry, did you think you were the only ones at the table with an entitlement complex.
At least the other project is fun, and the people who are on it with me are fun, and I actually hang out with them a little bit and that's. Almost what college was supposed to be like, right? I'm doing this right?
I can't tell anymore. I just don't know.
I'm really hoping things went well with the app process for my other Masters. I'll have to start poking at the Rolodex today and call around Monday and also finish this job app; I have everything they want except hard sciences experience. I'm probably their best-fit candidate. But I've thought that about all the other posts.
Yeah, having to listen to the exchange student and the new girl brag about getting the post you've wanted for a full calendar year? It's a little rough, not gonna lie. It could really have done stuff to my self-concept if I let it. Then I remember that we're all going to graduate soon, and we'll all be either baristas or bookstore schills, and then I don't feel so bad.
So yeah. Those things plus renewing my ethics training; I will be so glad to get out of this major and hopefully into the other one, where I won't have to care about the welfare of my clients as people, only about whether they're satisfied with the product and that will be glorious.
Six years later, I have two degrees in human relationships and I'm really fucking sick of people. I'm not sure that wasn't the actual intent of the program. To harden us all to giving a shit, because the world is ugly and not here to hold your hand.
Welcome to adulthood. Try not to get killed.