I have 33 job applications out there.
…Have taken 5 Interviews so far, and every day at work is like trying to survive a crawfish boil…as a fucking crawfish.
Once you get really serious about it, applying for a new job is actually taking on a second full-time job, unto itself. You really can’t half-ass it if you want to win your release from this other job-Hell.
…Course, adding to that problem, is the fact that you already have that full-time job which is stressing you out this badly to begin with.
…So: you get monster headaches and migraines and stress-cry-release in your car at lunch, while sitting in the Amtrak parking lot under a tree…(the closest, safest place just off campus)…where you hit the job boards some more, do your call-backs, conduct your first-round phone interviews…then go back to work and dive into that shit-hole for another four hours, before you come home, take a walk to at least *try* and uphold some form of mental health release, then hit the job boards again…with Buffy figuratively slaying all your life-shit in the background.
Until you pass out.
My strategy is simple: get out. Whatever it takes.
…Except not really “whatever”…which is why I still don’t have a new job.
I won’t give up nights or weekends. Thems theater holy times, and I am unwavering in my faith.
…If this whole thing has taught me nothing else, it is that middle management is the butt-boy of already shitty Corporate U.S.A. No life, or outside interests, and willingness to do absolutely anything for money has become a minimum qualification. Fuck your degree.
…Guys: it’s only money.
I’ve skipped paying a bill before. Ain’t never skipped a performance. That’s my quantifier of “life balance.”
…And so: I search on.
…And on, and on, and on…
…So many job boards: I wanna puke. So many applications, I have to log the fuckers just to keep track from email to voicemail to first and second interview notes. The back of my car is a damn mobile office, less a fax machine. I’ve got my Interview Suit on permanent stand-by, front of my closet. And the risk of losing my shit in a stress blow-out at any moment of day or night, is, (I feel), imminent.
(Someone should be selling tickets.)
…Yet, I plaster that crap on, for every single phone call I get, offering me hope. I’m the most charming mutherfucker you’ve ever met! You only wish you could hire me! If only I’d sell my soul and give up every Saturday and Sunday, and take the second shift after hours, Friday…
But: I won’t.
I’m bruised as hell, but I’m still standing. After TEN YEARS in this damn place.
…I can make is a few weeks more, to stand by the few morals I have left.
…So few…
…Sooo few…
…
…I mean: where’s a damn casting couch when you need one…?!
~D
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