Sometimes I dream I am sat on the edge of the globe.
It is like a balcony, and the vast never-ending blackness around me is the blanket that keeps me warm; the stars are the candles.
It is so quiet out here. A time-warp. There is nowhere else to be, there is no-one else to see, there is nothing I need; I am nameless. The earth is my lover who doesn’t have a voice, the sphere is the other half of my heart that beats to a separate rhythm; we do not need one another, but, we know - we both belong.
Here on the balcony is where I am at my most calm, where I can keep my eyes on mortality and therefore, keep it from haunting me.
I often think I might have been born in the wrong time and place. I think that if I’d have been born somewhere poor in the world, with poverty, and struggles, and real-life issues such as survival, (like you know, hunting boar and spearing fish) then I would have simply flourished as a human being. I suppose if I’d have been born homeless it would have felt the same. Although… I’d be a small child… perhaps feral… unable to speak English…
As it happens I am a poor little rich girl (depending on how you look at it – as it stands I have £100 in my bank account with no income as of yet) just trying desperately to keep my head above the tide of water that carries those patronising comments – ‘so what are you doing, now that you’ve finished university?’ And – ‘what jobs are you going to get with that happy-go-lucky drama degree?’ And – ‘how can you afford the rent if you can’t even get a job?’ And one more small comment that you hear, uttered quietly as you turn and leave the conversation – ‘ah, such a shame. And she was always such a lovely, happy girl.’
I feel I am always trying to be busy being busy.
Without projects to do I feel like a crazy person.
I have this opinion that there are lots of jobs around that I could do, but they all seem to centre around making money out of other human beings. Which is life. And this pisses me off. Which makes me appear like an angry person. Which makes me unemployable. And makes me insecure. Due to the guilt that comes as a by-product.
In general, I am quite a guilty person, anyway. I think many girls, of my age, are, I think it’s unavoidable unless you are emotionally detached or… maybe just normal. Anyway, who can blame us? We’ve all been given this wonderful life with wonderful opportunities, and we’ve all been used to sleeping in comfortable beds and hanging around with people that are quite simply just comfortable – people that think the world of you, that think you can do anything, and they’re looking at you and you’re thinking ‘Fuck. I’m letting them down. I’m ruining their perception of the world. I’m destroying an image of niceness amongst the mundane.’
We’re all guilty because we’re all trying desperately to enjoy ourselves in a world that is wonderful, except - we are failing. We are failing and it is like a betrayal of life. We are failing because we are not enjoying ourselves. And we are not enjoying ourselves because of the pressure. Everybody wants a perfect life. But perfection is subjective. And also impossible. Which everyone forgets, completely perfectly.
Who gives a shit if I am a waitress for the rest of my life?!
Not me! Frankly, it might save my sanity. At least people would be enjoying their food.
To those of you who are new to the job hunt, blindly stumbling like cute little bouncy fawns into the path of a high speed car, this is how you might sum up the attempted experience on paper. So far you are like little nurtured children, chirpy, and excited, and well fed, and glowing with compliments from your mother about how brilliant you are*- and yet you are still, (sigh) ignorant to the fact that those little socks you are wearing – yes, the ones with the furry baby kittens on them that your mummy gave you – yes, those socks will be ripped off by all the other happy little children. Those that are better than you. And smarter than you. And probably richer, already, even before the employment. Oh, and probably better looking.
Take a deep breath.
Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs SORRY TO POLITELY INFORM YOU OF YOUR UNSUCCESS job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs RUNNING OUT OF CASH jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs UNEMPLOYMENT jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs HAD TO SELL YOUR JEWELLARY FOR TRANSPORT CASH jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs YOU WOULD HAVE HATED IT ANYWAY job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs UNEMPLOYMENT jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs FAILURE jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs REJECTION jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs IM SORRY (you failed) jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs STI CHECK AFTER SEX INITIATED FOR FEMININ SELF-CONFIDENCE job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs hobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs UNEMPLOYMENT jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs WELCOME! (To unemployment.) jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs HAHAHAHHA (THEY ARE LAUGHING AT YOUR CV) jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs Jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs job jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs WELL DONE YOUR APPLICATION WAS SUCCESSFUL (TEARS) OH THANK YOU OH THANK YOU! (that was the girl next to you) jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs SINKING INTO A PIT OF DESPAIR jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs YOU NEVER WANTED IT ANYWAY YOU DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT VALET PARKING jobs jobs jobs jobs jobs HELP ME I AM CRAZY. Jobs. Jobs. Jobs. Jobs. Jobs…………………………………………..Jobs.
Job. What does that word even mean?
Job. The more you say it the weirder it starts to sound coming out of your mouth.
Job. It is such a primitive sounding word I think. Kind of stone age.
Job. My Grandmother used to call her dog’s poo ‘jobbies.’ I just had a flashback. I wish I could get paid to poo.
Job. Maybe I could get paid to clean poo?
Job. They’d say I was overqualified and wouldn’t bother to employ me.
Job. I have just realised I do not want to hear this word in conversation ever again.
Job. Ever.
Job. Like seriously.
Job. Fuck off.
-------------------------
Silence.
Phew.
Job. FUCK. It’s unavoidable.
Job. Like terrets syndrome.
Job. Fuck.
J- FUCK OFF.
……………………………………………………………………………………………… JOB FUCK SHIT WANK COCK.
*too months into the job hunt, it is likely your mother might try to hit you. Repeatedly. Perhaps with the handbag that carries her purse that has harboured the fruits of her labour since she was ‘just sixteen years old when she left school all of her own accord and managed to find a path and build a career.’ Change the broken record, Mother. Times change. We no longer marry at age twenty and didn’t you know, everyone these days spends their parents’ care-home fund on travelling? So good luck with your dementia.
During your examination of jobs on the internet, you stumble across a charity asking for money towards an African Care Fund. Distracted, you then research Africa. You proceed to write a list of reasons to move to Africa. You consider writing ‘long term aims,’ as your mother has encouraged you to do whilst carefully making decisions ‘based around the future,’ – to which you think - isn’t every decision based around the future? And if so, surely the immediate future seems most importantly pressing? Especially considering suicide is always an option.
Anyway, the reasons to move to Africa – the most importantly pressing subjects currently on your brain - are few, but it is not about the quantity – it is about the quality.
- Skinny black people. (You’re not racist, but you find them attractive.)
- The scrub land. It’s sparse and barren. Like the field of employment. But without the shame.
- Waterfalls.
- Zebras, giraffes, dramatic wildlife. Always a plus.
- Possible death due to dramatic wildlife. So if you ever needed an excuse…
- Vineyards. Promotes alcoholism but in a socially acceptable environment.
- Tourism. Just because.
- Illegal trade. Mother always said you inherited your father’s ‘great business head.’(He’s a manic depressive.)
- Elephants. Oh. You’ve mentioned wildlife.
- Weight loss. Controversial.
If you lived in Africa, you could move to a really poor part, you know – I mean… no offence. Materialism is a matter of survival. How many goats you got? I’ve got ten. How many goats have you got? I’ve got twelve, fuck you.
A place where money is irrelevant, and everybody deals in trade. Then you could take all of your clothes and just – you could swap all of your wardrobe for a couple of goats, a milk making session with a kind neighbour from the hut next door, and perhaps some nice brown leather to fashion a loin cloth. Then you’d be the King of the block, huh? Make some milk, raise some goats, meet a friendly man, have some children, grow them up swapping milk for yarn, playing games in the street, making wine in your back garden/the street that is your garden, yours and every other persons within the five mile hut radius, but if it’s good enough for God it’s good enough for you…
Mrs what’s-her-face from next door would never come round without knocking and catch you in your underwear, then unashamedly look at your body up and down and comment – “you’re looking well,” meaning “my oh my somebody’s either pregnant, fat, or has developed a sudden thyroid problem.”
Mrs the-one-with-the-black-cat-that-always-comes-over-and-poos-on-your-garden would never state loudly on her driveway, coincidently just as you walk past, how ‘drama is not the degree to be doing if you want to be taken seriously in a profession that doesn’t involve cross-dressing.’ Later that night you can see into her window, she’s watching ‘Hairspray’ whilst filing paperwork. If you lived in Africa, you’d never bother to go into the garden, pick up the cat poo from off the sodding grass, and chuck it at her conservatory window. If you lived in Africa, you’d be happy with the poo in the garden. It would mean your goats were still alive.
Yeah. Africa. The place of dreams.
Your friends start getting picked off one by one. There used to be 5 of you, happy and smiling and laughing about getting drunk and passing out and eating too much chocolate and regretting it and…. Ah, you know the story. It’s called University Life. And it sure doesn’t set you up for a world of work!
You know you’re lagging behind, when –
- You’re eating dinner with those university friends and the table side conversation moves from the weekend and directly into what can only be described as ‘office chat.’ Office boys. Office cars. Office blackberries. Office chairs. Office staplers. Office logos on the side of Office pens. Office Office Office Office Office Office Suck. My. Cock office.
- When your response to a comment made about Christmas is – ‘Fucking Christmas.’
- When you order a starter as a main because it’s cheaper, only to find that everyone else is comfortable with splitting the bill. Splitting the bill. Splitting. The. Bill.
- In response to the above comment you wish you’d ordered steak and at least had a decent meal.*
- *And a bottle of Moet.
- You have an irrational fear of all those asking you for spare change for charity – you even avoid cashiers, and find yourself crossing roads to avoid them.
- When everybody tips the waiters you suddenly have the desperate urge to vomit. You realise both the idea of tipping, and the tippers themselves, simply tip you over the edge.
- When you accidentally ruin your friends promotion by getting ridiculously drunk at her work party, crying, and shouting at her boss (with all the free food stuffed in your handbag.)
- When you start having to steal food from your Granddads fridge. And it’s even gone-off, too.
- When you successfully busk on the street. Until you get robbed.
- When you are sat infront of ‘The Notebook’ and you don’t cry. A psychologist might confirm you as ‘emotionally detached.’
- When you eat take-away out of a dirty mug, smelly and alone, and don’t even have the energy to resort to bulimia afterwards.
- When you throw your old Nokia mobile phone in the bin. And don’t talk to ANYBODY. For at least three weeks. Until they find you bathing in a tub of Tesco Value Vodka. Burning in a modern day self-inflicted hell.
<3 Amazing.
ReplyDeleteBelieve it or not, we had the Africa plan too. Still do.
I agree with it all
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