Not your standard issue late twenty-something's blog.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Kickboxing. Sport of the future.

I put on a 5-year-old suit this morning. It felt like a costume. An ill-fitting, questionably smelling . . .costume. Put pearls in my ears. Lipstick and eye shadow and powder. Felt like a tool. Went to my second interview at a law firm, conveniently located two blocks from my apartment. I was tested on Microsoft Word. Microsoft Word . . .FROM THE FUTURE!

I'd never seen toolbars like these. I had to make tables and use formats I'd never heard of. They handed me a book of documents and said "create these. imput data." For the love of God . . .in my current law office gig, I stamp pieces of paper and photocopy them. I don't actually CREATE anything. I don't IMPUT jack. I don't think or make decisions or talk to anyone. I sat within earshot and eyeline of most of potential employers and picked my lips, hunched over the keyboard nervously. Nervously sweating. It was only when I felt eyes on me did I realize I'd audibly said the word "shit!"

Needless to say, they didn't want me. More importantly perhaps, I realized I didn't want them. As I walked home, sweating, I knew I didn't want to work in a job that required a daily suit or where I was given the title "secretary" or "assistant to" or any such thing. I want to have a job that's okay and I want to write. Suddenly I mourn for my days in Park Slope. My tiny, stifling hot bedroom on one of the prettiest streets in Brooklyn. Sweating over my crapass Compaq notebook from 1996. Dating the wrong guy. Getting too drunk with Tim and John. (Some things don't change).

Is that the answer? Say fuck adulthood and fuck what your parents' expectations are and be something more human than just another office drone? Is that what this is all telling me?
Fuck if I know.


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