(no subject)
The house feels more or less like home now... I still find that, without the diversions I took for granted in Manassas (an unrewarding job and the ramblings of an older brother), I make little chores for myself. I've gone to the grocery store the past two days, both times getting only enough food to sustain me for the day at hand. The only reason that the fact that I have to buy my own food wasn't a shock to me was that it was never announced or made official. Mom simply withdrew her financial investment from my sustenance. As the food supply dwindled, my hunger-addled mind was forced to enter hunter/scavenger mode. In the past few days I've had to raid the spice rack to obtain paprika, which now forms the bulk of m
I feel as though I'm burning through my savings faster than I probably am. The lack of employment weighs heavily on my mind; still, I find little ways to delay my job search on a day-to-day basis. Most of these delays are resume oriented. Actually, that's pretty much my only problem. At the moment, mom is in Manassas, so I can't have her help me make one. She and father are visiting tomorrow. I'll have to get their help tomorrow. With dad here, that will mean that I will ask the space between them how to make a resume (a technique I developed early in my life out of fear of making them think I was displaying favoritism). Mom will show me how to do it, I will run the draft by dad to proofread, he will insist that mother is doing it all wrong, we'll make the revisions, the matter will come up as a joke during dinner, mother will take offense, dad will drive back to Manassas in anger, and, later that night, I will combine the two drafts, making a hybrid resume that will hopefully not look as patchwork as only god and I know it is.
Dad revealed to me two days ago the real reason for my moving to McLean. It depressed me.
I have not met anyone whom I would consider worthy or my company in McLean. The population, as I had previously postulated, is composed primarily of rich, old, white people. The Tyson's Corner Mall, which stands roughly the same distance from my house as the Manassas mall did from my previous residence, is actually worse than the manassas mall, if you can imagine it. I'm sure I would wet myself if I were rich and female, for it is a land of clothing stores interspersed with fresh fruit juice stands. Even the pagodas, which, in the Manassas mall, sell cell phone covers or gutter protectors, sell diamonds and platinum. This is not Funny Peter, this is Serious Peter. The low-security, middle-of-the-corridor pagodas sell diamonds and platinum. As I walked into the building with the vague recolletion of a Sbarro restaurant sitting within my memories of ten years ago (the last time I was there), I felt instantly out of place. It was a land of perpetual "keeping up with the Joneses"; everyone looked down their nose at people who had jewelry that would surely appraise at a slightly lesser value from their own. You can imagine, I'm sure, how they viewed the fat teenager wearing the khaki shorts, oversized perfect circle t-shirt, mismatching socks, and disheveled hair.
Also worth mentioning about the town of McLean is that it is almost entirely devoid of the Mexicans that so liberally dot Manassas' landscape. I only see them when they have either a lawnmower in front of them or a leafblower behind. It's actually kind of sad. I want to direct them to the land of Manassas, where Mexicans walk the streets like humans. Oh well.
Anyway, there you have it. All the news fit to print. You guys should visit, you know. It's lonely up here.
I feel as though I'm burning through my savings faster than I probably am. The lack of employment weighs heavily on my mind; still, I find little ways to delay my job search on a day-to-day basis. Most of these delays are resume oriented. Actually, that's pretty much my only problem. At the moment, mom is in Manassas, so I can't have her help me make one. She and father are visiting tomorrow. I'll have to get their help tomorrow. With dad here, that will mean that I will ask the space between them how to make a resume (a technique I developed early in my life out of fear of making them think I was displaying favoritism). Mom will show me how to do it, I will run the draft by dad to proofread, he will insist that mother is doing it all wrong, we'll make the revisions, the matter will come up as a joke during dinner, mother will take offense, dad will drive back to Manassas in anger, and, later that night, I will combine the two drafts, making a hybrid resume that will hopefully not look as patchwork as only god and I know it is.
Dad revealed to me two days ago the real reason for my moving to McLean. It depressed me.
I have not met anyone whom I would consider worthy or my company in McLean. The population, as I had previously postulated, is composed primarily of rich, old, white people. The Tyson's Corner Mall, which stands roughly the same distance from my house as the Manassas mall did from my previous residence, is actually worse than the manassas mall, if you can imagine it. I'm sure I would wet myself if I were rich and female, for it is a land of clothing stores interspersed with fresh fruit juice stands. Even the pagodas, which, in the Manassas mall, sell cell phone covers or gutter protectors, sell diamonds and platinum. This is not Funny Peter, this is Serious Peter. The low-security, middle-of-the-corridor pagodas sell diamonds and platinum. As I walked into the building with the vague recolletion of a Sbarro restaurant sitting within my memories of ten years ago (the last time I was there), I felt instantly out of place. It was a land of perpetual "keeping up with the Joneses"; everyone looked down their nose at people who had jewelry that would surely appraise at a slightly lesser value from their own. You can imagine, I'm sure, how they viewed the fat teenager wearing the khaki shorts, oversized perfect circle t-shirt, mismatching socks, and disheveled hair.
Also worth mentioning about the town of McLean is that it is almost entirely devoid of the Mexicans that so liberally dot Manassas' landscape. I only see them when they have either a lawnmower in front of them or a leafblower behind. It's actually kind of sad. I want to direct them to the land of Manassas, where Mexicans walk the streets like humans. Oh well.
Anyway, there you have it. All the news fit to print. You guys should visit, you know. It's lonely up here.