Saturday, June 02, 2007

Lethal injections of G&T.

As I said before, I had this charming little informal interview for an admissions counselor position in my office, which was my one shot at some sort of career path at my current place of employment. I was sure it went well, and expected to be selected for the formal interview process, especially since I already work there and have many, many great references on my side. When I didn't hear back about the interview by Thursday, I emailed my co-worker - yes, she's technically my co-worker, even though she's one of those sweet gals on the other side of the office who hadn't spoken to me in a year and a half until I came into her office to grovel for a job - to see what the status was. When I got home yesterday, I received a form email regretting to inform me that I had not been selected for the position.

Now, I had already decided that if this happened I'd take it as a sign from Whoever that I am absolutely worthless because I can't even get a promotion in my own office. So I did what I usually do in these times of distress: I called my parents. After a brief chit-chat about the weather (an exchange that I had had earlier in the day with my father, who will ask me, "How are things in Chicago?" even if I call him every five minutes), I broke the news. My dad became quiet and apologized, and I could hear my mom in the background asking questions because she knew what was wrong. After all, it was Friday afternoon, which is the best time to break someone's hopes and dreams of becoming an admissions counselor. (Not only did she inform me that I am too mediocre for such a mediocrity-laden job, the woman decided it was best to ruin my weekend, as well.) My mom tried to comfort me in our family's typical fashion, which is to figure out what is wrong with ME, as opposed to the idea that there really were other qualified applicants. "Well, you know, I sent you that article about how employers will Google the people they interview and look for their blogs," she said. I snapped and said that I KNOW who is reading my blog, and no one has Googled my name for months. I really wanted to say that I doubted the woman was concerned about her large labia and that's how she stumbled on my blog. Or perhaps she was looking for pictures of "pug eating donut." I suppose it's possible.

After my phone-breakdown, where I cried and said "fuck" a few times, which I suppose was taken without any scolding on my parents' part because, hey, I'm fucking miserable right now!, I decided that my next plan of action was to smoke a lot of cigarettes and get ridiculously, ridiculously drunk, natch. I ate a few spoonfuls of cookie dough and ate some lasagna to ensure no pass-outs, and I left with fifty dollars burning a hole in my wallet. Sometimes I like to punish myself by becoming dangerously close to overdrawing my account AND destroying my body at the same time. I'm either a masochist, or just a self-loathing English major. I took "Film Adaptations" instead of accounting. I get what I deserve.

To make a long story short, if only because recounting how much gin I took in before deciding that switching to beer was safer, cheaper, and just made sense would be depressing to write (and read, I'm sure), I succeeded in my plan to get all drunky-pants. So drunky-pants, in fact, that when I realized that I was having trouble standing up, I searched in vain for an open seat and resorted to sitting on a metal trashcan. And I'm sure it was filled with trash, although I checked the seat of my pants this morning and it appears it's all clean! And my ass isn't too sore from trying to balance myself on a fucking metal trashcan.

The rest of the night is rather hazy, although I think the friend I was with had enough sense to realize that if I was willing to sit in filth, it was probably time to call me a cab. And when I got back to my neighborhood, I experienced a new level of public puking, an activity in which I had not yet partaken. And I passed out in my clothes with my head next to my laptop and all of my lights left on.

Much to my surprise, I do not feel so much better about life.


Katy said...

If it wasnt for the parasite, I would kill myself at my job. I found myself wishing I was back at DePaul, "linking". Advice for you undergrads: DO NOT GET AN ENGLISH DEGREE. I also considered getting fired so I could collect unemployment, but then Justin reminded me about the "kind" of people that have to go there. I think you know what I mean...

The [Cherry] Ride said...

It'll get better. Hang in there.