what an eccentric performance
So, I'm awake.
First of all, I finished my resume. Exactly as I predicted, it only took about 20 minutes, yet I had been putting it off for weeks. Or months, even. I am now one step closer to a fabulous career as a. . .
And then there's that. Whenever I can't sleep, I like to blame the insomnia on too many Dr. Peppers or on my wonky sleeping schedule (staying up late, sleeping late, lounging for most of the day). The truth is I just can't make my brain shut the hell up.
So, here I sit, watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, checking and rechecking my email, trying to figure out how to explain to Sprint that I can't pay my bill if they don't mail it to me. And I'm thinking. Thinking about hurling myself into the job market abyss. Thinking about moving to a new place without my safety net, in search of something I can't quite put my finger on. Thinking about how to make things work.
And suddenly, security doesn't seem so repulsive. Why not settle down, have someone take care of me, make my decisions, pay my bills? Surely there are worse fates than finding yourself on the front page of the Natchitoches Times for having the best-looking yard in the city. What would I really be giving up? And for that matter, what good does it do me to dream of being the next Tina Fey? We've already got one; why am I needed?
Now the movie is over, no one is sending me email at 2:31 in the morning, and I've resigned myself to letting Sprint screw me out of the five dollar late fee. And I'm still thinking. If I felt too big for Natchitoches, too big for Waco, too big for Baton Rouge, is there a place in which I'll fit?
Damn those four glasses of Dr. Pepper.
First of all, I finished my resume. Exactly as I predicted, it only took about 20 minutes, yet I had been putting it off for weeks. Or months, even. I am now one step closer to a fabulous career as a. . .
And then there's that. Whenever I can't sleep, I like to blame the insomnia on too many Dr. Peppers or on my wonky sleeping schedule (staying up late, sleeping late, lounging for most of the day). The truth is I just can't make my brain shut the hell up.
So, here I sit, watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, checking and rechecking my email, trying to figure out how to explain to Sprint that I can't pay my bill if they don't mail it to me. And I'm thinking. Thinking about hurling myself into the job market abyss. Thinking about moving to a new place without my safety net, in search of something I can't quite put my finger on. Thinking about how to make things work.
And suddenly, security doesn't seem so repulsive. Why not settle down, have someone take care of me, make my decisions, pay my bills? Surely there are worse fates than finding yourself on the front page of the Natchitoches Times for having the best-looking yard in the city. What would I really be giving up? And for that matter, what good does it do me to dream of being the next Tina Fey? We've already got one; why am I needed?
Now the movie is over, no one is sending me email at 2:31 in the morning, and I've resigned myself to letting Sprint screw me out of the five dollar late fee. And I'm still thinking. If I felt too big for Natchitoches, too big for Waco, too big for Baton Rouge, is there a place in which I'll fit?
Damn those four glasses of Dr. Pepper.