musings
After five long drunken years of higher education, Western is handing me a degree and telling me I'm ready to face the world. I'm really in conflict with myself! Oh no! What am I going to do now that I'm done with college!?
This is the part in the movie where I'm supposed to freak out and try to start a career, right?
This is the part where I'm supposed to make exactly 21 billion copies of my resume and send them in triplicate to every person on the planet, hoping they'll let me work in the mail room until my ideas really wow that representative from Cleveland and I'm promoted to middle management, right?
This is the part where I'm supposed to grab life by the horns and be proactive and sharpen the saw and be a highly effective person and all that white-collar desk-jockey corporate-ladder-climbing epic-Starbucks-order 9:00 a.m.-tee-off can-I-get-a-corporate-rate bullshit, right?
Well, y'know... I'd really just rather work my shitty overnight job for another year, hone my guitar chops, dump the 30 pounds I gained when I moved here, turn my body into a weapon, and if I'm not well on my way to succeeding in music by the time I'm 25, I'l try for a commission and be Commander King for a while.
At the very least, they'll pay off my student loans. Of which there are many.
I'm really not sweating it. I just don't want to spend the rest of my life being a fucking reporter. Sorry, J-department, I love you and I've met some of my best friends through you and I love that you made me a better writer and gave me a little more of a work ethic, kind of.
But seriously?
Fuck a newspaper.
I'M THE HELL OUT THIS BITCH.
This is the part in the movie where I'm supposed to freak out and try to start a career, right?
This is the part where I'm supposed to make exactly 21 billion copies of my resume and send them in triplicate to every person on the planet, hoping they'll let me work in the mail room until my ideas really wow that representative from Cleveland and I'm promoted to middle management, right?
This is the part where I'm supposed to grab life by the horns and be proactive and sharpen the saw and be a highly effective person and all that white-collar desk-jockey corporate-ladder-climbing epic-Starbucks-order 9:00 a.m.-tee-off can-I-get-a-corporate-rate bullshit, right?
Well, y'know... I'd really just rather work my shitty overnight job for another year, hone my guitar chops, dump the 30 pounds I gained when I moved here, turn my body into a weapon, and if I'm not well on my way to succeeding in music by the time I'm 25, I'l try for a commission and be Commander King for a while.
At the very least, they'll pay off my student loans. Of which there are many.
I'm really not sweating it. I just don't want to spend the rest of my life being a fucking reporter. Sorry, J-department, I love you and I've met some of my best friends through you and I love that you made me a better writer and gave me a little more of a work ethic, kind of.
But seriously?
Fuck a newspaper.
I'M THE HELL OUT THIS BITCH.