If you didn’t know, I have a blog entitled “Blocktherapy”–a way of forcing myself to write through my writer’s block (even if it isn’t really what I want to be saying.)
And, if you hadn’t noticed, I have been failing since going back to work.
How am I ever going to become a novelist, without also being broke and unemployed, if I can’t even keep up with a weblog while working in retail?
I panicked and… it happened.
I sucked it up, I e-mailed my old manager, I put my nose in all the right places, and I got my job back.
I’m officially un-unemployed.
As of week three (after Valentine’s Day) I’m headed in to be re-trained in the art of bra-fitting.
This means I have two weeks left to enjoy the nerve-wracking bliss of unemployment.
Look at me go! I’m determined to not shower and wear my pajamas constantly and incessantly smoke and play useless games on the internet and giggle and bloggggg my life away. Well, the next two weeks of my life, anyway.
71 words per minute with only an average of 5.0 mistakes per minute? That’s my all-time record! At least, that I can recall.
Oooh for some reason, there is almost nothing more fun than taking typing tests on this lazy day. Well, not entirely lazy! I did make a delicious scramble for breakfast, and a loaf of cinnamon bread, and I helped Mariah make a piece out of an apple! And then when were done smoking out of it, we ate it! (Actually less exciting than it sounds, the deliciously cold, crispy sweetness of the Gala apple does not mask the smoky, resin flavor well. Yuck).
Anyway, as Casey and I were sitting around being assholes to one another and applying for jobs, we came across a few secretarial positions (is office assistant the P.C. term now?) that required the ability to type at least 45 wpm (words per minute, just in case you weren’t sure). So we’ve been taking typing tests, and, of course, I’ve been winning. Heh, heh. Steadily moving up from 60 wpm to 65 wpm to 66 to 68 and finally! 71 wpm! A glorious triumph!
Oh God, I really do need a job.
Ooh, no, I hope you aren’t expecting me to write some great social or political or economical commentary, cause I’m really just here to bitch about how much it blows to be unemployed.
Granted, I’m sort of sitting around, crossing my fingers that my second interview with Whole Foods Market will go marvelously, and they’ll be throwing job offers at me, practically begging me to work for them. And soon I will be stocking and pulling and sampling organic produce to boot, and making money!
It doesn’t seem like so long ago that I was a content, unemployed, college drop-out. Smoking like a chimney, and cashing in all of my childhood bonds before they had matured to keep me in green and cigarettes and snack foods, busing it from place to place, doing odd jobs here and there, and living carefree. Now (though you wouldn’t know it from my shocking lack of motivation) not having a job stresses me out.
God I miss being a true stoner. Or maybe the extreme paranoia just means that I actually am?
No matter which way you slice it, I need a job.