I did something rather uncharacteristic of myself for New Years, I went out. My roommate drug me out of the house and to a house party. After wallflowering and exchanging greetings with a half dozen people or so for an hour, I distanced myself and started to watch. Though I was the only one present who had not consumed a drop of alcohol (because, well, drinking is not fun) I realized that I was, nonetheless, just as drunk as they were, and playing the role of partier become natural.
I have carved out Monster, Indeed, Career Builder, etc., and discovered caves scribbled with long requirements and job responsibilities. I feel like I have little experience, and I do not know I am qualified to do. Even entry level jobs seem to demand more than what "entry" denotes. And let's say that Nashville is not a hot spot for book publishing jobs. After spending an hour roaming through these caves, I leave intoxicated—stumbling over my desires and chipping my typing fingers on the way down that have gotten me thus far. Then I think about who I know. That part takes a bit less than a hour.
Copywriter? Assistant to Editor? Proposal Writer? Technical Writer? Not a writer? Another glass please.
In other news, by the time I got off of work and was reminded of the black eyed peas superstition, the grocery was clean out, but I did learn frontside tail slides skating yesterday, so I think I will continue to get out of bed in the mornings. Who knows, variations may be coming soon.
I have five months to sober up and get a real job, or I'm stuck in Murfreesboro.
At 1:00, some sunshine during these dim winter days.
A song filtered by holy water.
Always calming.
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