strange how hard it rains now
Every night I settle down for sleep, and it thunders over me like cold water: tomorrow I could wake up, and the post could come, and there will be a letter. And it will tell me that I haven't got into any colleges.
Or possibly they will just forget all about me, or I did something wrong, and I won't get a letter at all. Ever. Statistically it is not unlikely. People tend to find me very forgettable, especially when it's important. Note the 90% of jobs to which I have applied never calling me back. Even when I camp out in their front room and they swear up and down that they will for a week.
Otherwise, I'm holding up pretty well. I am very good at ignoring Great Looming Things. Anyway, on the bright side, I have got an interview at a restaurant tomorrow evening. One at which I applied a month or so ago, not one of the ones I applied to on Tuesday, but -- interviews are rare, as the above neatly illustrates. There are two branches of this restaurant in town, about two miles from each other (look, don't ask me; we will also have six blasted grocery stores by summer, and yet only a tiny bookshop and no Target), and it wasn't until I hung up, having agreed to a five-thirty interview, that I realised that I had no idea which one of them had just asked to interview me. I had a moment of wryly amused panic until we figured out how to get the phone to tell us the last number that had called us, and I Googled it to find the address to which it belonged. Ah, the future, how I love you. Anyway, I am... well, I'm never not pessimistic about such things, but I do know that I would not mind being a waitress. In fact I think I would like it. There always seem to be good stories in it, despite the stress involved. So.
In slightly less less-bleak news, today I bicycled through the rain and felt very fey and got a lovely shirt with a white tree and ravens (I pretend) on, which makes me happy because it reminds me of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell and Gondor and my Novel a bit, and I fought a lot with the Angelmobile, who has got more than one literal actual screw loose, and rode in the rain some more singing very morbid ballads. My hair looks especially lovely today; I think it was getting wet in the rain that did it; it's all effortlessly curly in an urchin sort of way. I love spring and summer rain; it's fresh and brisk and startles one into life, and I love the smell of it, and the smell of the heat and dust rising out of the ground and evaporating in the coolness above.
Still. I don't want to wake up in the morning and have to face the future -- again. And I'm tired of the shower being broken and the dishwasher being broken and now the bedimmed microwave. And all of this staying up late uselessly is making me maudlin, I am sure.
I am tired of not having a hole to fill.
Or possibly they will just forget all about me, or I did something wrong, and I won't get a letter at all. Ever. Statistically it is not unlikely. People tend to find me very forgettable, especially when it's important. Note the 90% of jobs to which I have applied never calling me back. Even when I camp out in their front room and they swear up and down that they will for a week.
Otherwise, I'm holding up pretty well. I am very good at ignoring Great Looming Things. Anyway, on the bright side, I have got an interview at a restaurant tomorrow evening. One at which I applied a month or so ago, not one of the ones I applied to on Tuesday, but -- interviews are rare, as the above neatly illustrates. There are two branches of this restaurant in town, about two miles from each other (look, don't ask me; we will also have six blasted grocery stores by summer, and yet only a tiny bookshop and no Target), and it wasn't until I hung up, having agreed to a five-thirty interview, that I realised that I had no idea which one of them had just asked to interview me. I had a moment of wryly amused panic until we figured out how to get the phone to tell us the last number that had called us, and I Googled it to find the address to which it belonged. Ah, the future, how I love you. Anyway, I am... well, I'm never not pessimistic about such things, but I do know that I would not mind being a waitress. In fact I think I would like it. There always seem to be good stories in it, despite the stress involved. So.
In slightly less less-bleak news, today I bicycled through the rain and felt very fey and got a lovely shirt with a white tree and ravens (I pretend) on, which makes me happy because it reminds me of Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell and Gondor and my Novel a bit, and I fought a lot with the Angelmobile, who has got more than one literal actual screw loose, and rode in the rain some more singing very morbid ballads. My hair looks especially lovely today; I think it was getting wet in the rain that did it; it's all effortlessly curly in an urchin sort of way. I love spring and summer rain; it's fresh and brisk and startles one into life, and I love the smell of it, and the smell of the heat and dust rising out of the ground and evaporating in the coolness above.
Still. I don't want to wake up in the morning and have to face the future -- again. And I'm tired of the shower being broken and the dishwasher being broken and now the bedimmed microwave. And all of this staying up late uselessly is making me maudlin, I am sure.
I am tired of not having a hole to fill.