Is it petty to not share in the happiness of someone else's success? Is it petty to wish-to beg, even, knuckles blistering, eyes bloodshot, beseeching each god-for their horrific downfall? Is it immature to consider another's achievement, to imagine them doing the job you wish you had-walking around in your fancy pants, sleeping with your wife in your own bedroom, eating your Frosted Mini Wheats, loudly slurping the milk-and sink into despair? Is this unfair? Should this be beneath me? I woke up in an un-air-conditioned lethargy this morning and, as I have for the past several years, rolled over to open my laptop.
At what point do I stop checking Craigslist? Why is there an ad for "MYSTERY SHOPPING" in the "writing/editing jobs" category? How much is their purported "nominal compensation"? A ten dollar per diem? A bag of buttons? A punch in the throat? "THIS IS NOT A FREE MEAL!," the ad warns. Well, then. Forget it! Why does this company leave the â€˜i' in â€˜iNC' uncapitalized? Perhaps this is some sort of test-for a prospective mystery shopper-slash-editor? What other horrors can I spot? I wonder if the person who wrote "boutique mystery shopping company seeks strong writers" felt as sad writing that as I do reading it.
I am not entirely sure what networking is, and I'm not sure anyone else is either. I am somewhat sure that I am not doing it. I've been given the gist of it before. I know that it's all about meeting the right people, and making new contacts, and following up and other italicized things. L___ takes it upon himself now and then to explain it to me-frustrated, exasperated-how one can turn a stranger into an employer. L___, who graduated with me, has a very good job, and is in a constant state of networking. He networks on the toilet. He networks during acid rain storms. Were the Nazis invading [...]
I think, perhaps, there are too many dudes living in this apartment. The din of high fives. The groaning floors and walls. The wet spots. The rattling electronic equipment. The male odors of various and disquieting provenance. Our quaint, slightly cramped two bedroom has taken on some sort of hybridized character between lacrosse locker room and U-boat. Pushing aside a precarious skyline of mostly-empty beer bottles spurs a pang of guilt in me; I never chipped in for these and certainly never will. One tips over and spills a bit of tepid, shit beer on my pant leg. Out, damned spot! This is no place for me to try to [...]