compulsive updating must mean i'm avoiding something

...and we have a winner! can Sara Goldfarb please step forward to accept my refrigerator's medal of honor, or, wait...

basically the situation is this: my job is not terrible, because it involves a paycheck, no physical labor, and no handling of food. aside from that, i make slightly above minimum wage and work full time and am too brain-dead by the time 5:00 rolls around to do anything productive. Productive, in this case, includes stalking trains in the manner of my 90-page thesis from hell wherein i followed the N train around like a psychotic fangirl until it yielded all its secrets. So far i have only a few snippets for my 4 train dossier & the fucking Bronx isn't getting any closer, seriously. By the time i make it up there even the eerily monolithic Grand Concourse McDonalds at the 2/5 stop will be a fat smirking condo smoking a cigar & dropping the ashes on my head so that i suffocate while having blizzard fantasies. Last time i was there taking photos of the magnificently creepy ravine on the west side of the GC south of the park that looks like Dorothy's Yellow Brick Road minus the bricks [currently being sold in Washington Heights for $2k, if anyone's interested], & some guy came out of nowhere to tell me there were three enormous eagles sitting on an antenna protruding from the roof of the Catholic school across the street. out of the ?kindness? of his own heart, or perhaps hoping i'd get a better picture of his neighborhood than some unnerving cliff adorned with mangled shopping carts and mud-crusted baby clothes. unfortunately my camera zoom blows dead cats & the resulting photos show nothing aside from some nonchalant blobs but the fuckers were majestic as hell & i wouldn't have noticed if not for--you guessed it--the Kindness Of Strangers. more proof acting class in high school fucked with my head--"streetcar named desire" references crawling beneath the skin of EVERYTHING, if you look hard enough.

the point? Assisted eagle sightings > promotional fucking products any day. I'm lucky to have my job, especially since i'm perpetually late/slow/narcoleptic, but seriously where's that juicy journalism position. yes, i'm being sarcastic; no, i am not idealistic or dumb enough to think there is such a thing as a juicy [monetarily speaking at least] journalism position anywhere. i can live through the rest of the internship--it's two more months--but after this i really need the kind of job that doesn't send me screaming into a vegetable stupor every evening. spoiled brat? probably. so shoot me--i'm not going to feign contentment. i am mortally allergic to the Routine. popping out of the 4 train at Grand Central in the morning with all the other Inc. superstars on the clock is not something i want to be doing for the rest of my life.

bonus happyfuntime scheduling hilarity: tomorrow i have to get to midtown an hour early to appear in all my business-casual finery at a "marketing breakfast" at a 45th street hotel, mingling with wannabe Patrick Batemans & lamenting my lack of a business card til i sprain a smile muscle. needless to say this will be treated as a sociological study just like my appearance at a CMJ showcase last weekend. i can hardly wait to watch everyone not-eat as they worry about their performance reviews & receding hairlines. my boss was very careful to stress that we lowly interns dress up, & equally emphatic that we "don't need to wear suits." i'm wearing a fucking suit because we all know don't is the new do. & just think of the networking opportunities i'll be squandering if i don't! Plus, i have to scurry out of work at lightspeed to visit the lovely Brooklyn Municipal Building and have an intimate keyboarded dialogue with my new automated probation officer--the magnificent kiosk. i will not miss the hours spent in that waiting room at all. praise technology. and think of the networking opportunities i'll be missing THERE.

poof!

Halloween is the new New Year. hear that echo? that's my accountability in an EMPTY ROOM. i sense it is time to erase this blog & start over again because once more this is not going anywhere--livejournal redux anybody? all zero of you who i've informed of this site's existence? i have ALL the luck.

like a [broken] record baby right round

how do i fill my days? with gasoline. high octane, preferably, but i'll take what i can get [& then more when nobody's looking]

it’s october twenty-eighth two-thousand and nine do you know where your significance is? Hey man, we don’t need your money, we just wanna check your pockets for holes… is my head next? Please tell me my head is next. Drill a few exploratory wholes in there to see what makes me tick, find out it’s nothing, the illusion shattered [a scene]:

the man behind the curtain has locked himself in the bathroom to shoot up uh oh what are we going to do now? A field trip full of kids & no one to explain to them how the world/machine works. I mean he’ll come out of the bathroom eventually, but meanwhile how are we going to entertain all these restless ten-year-olds? Cracking the requisite potty-mouthed jokes, taken to the 20th power because the guy is actually in the bathroom, we knew something was up with him long ago I swear but we thought he’d cleaned up his act. please don't fire me this job validates the very respiration of my CELLS---
...So! we come forward with a suggestion—how about a game of charades? Call it “life” but don’t put that on the box because you’re infringing on someone’s trademark. Which came first the cereal or the board game? Or, you know, actual LIFE? “getting people high since TK BC” favorite flavor tag line. Tag, you’re it, shhh. Tag, you’re shit, uh pardon my dyslexia it only comes out to play when I’ve had a few. A few what?

When the paper chase becomes literal—someone stop that bill! Mr Washington comebackyouleftyourovenon !!!

the obvious: i have a job. i write about promotional products for a company whose walls are plastered with motivational posters that worry me immensely whenever i read them. i sit at a computer until i resemble a vegetable. remind me again why i didn't go straight into grad school? oh right. my brain was fucking FRIED.

the less-than-obvious: i am actively applying for grad school, as in have applications open on three schools' websites, instead of staring mutely at the deadline all deer-in-head-lights-with-sunglasses like i usually do. fuck the adult world i'm not cut out for this shit, just pickle me in academia & stamp me irrelevant

...now, back to your previously scheduled silence. now with more regret, more insomnia, & less money, always less money. cheers!