The Second Coming & Murphy's Fucking Law
So my hair was done, I was ready to go, I read the website, I knew what to say, my portfolio was together, I even had coins for the meter. I leave my house so that I had a half hour to find the place once I get there, and there I am staring at a construction site and the playhouse. Fuck! Call my old work assistant and he tells me I need to be on the 600 block and not the 1600. I have 5 min. I am late. I call them - this doesn't look good. I get in, sweating from having run 3/4 of a mile in a full suit, portfolio in tow, and hair like I've just stepped off of a helicopter. Fuck! I have no idea what they wanted, or if I'm in, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't that fun for them. I need this job, and it is not a life or death matter, but it's pretty fucking close now. They didn't even look at my 30 lb portfolio. Jesus Christ. Well, there's nothing I can do but wait. This would be a good time to find religion. Fuck me. Why do I decompose in these cases when it's my life we're fucking with and yet I can completely maintain when I need to help organizations, CEO's, other people? FUCKKKKKKK! It pisses me off that I choke like this when I know what I need & I know that I can do this.
Here is part of a little ditty by W.B.Yeats. Leave it to the Modernists to make the insignificant ramblings of a suburban trashette seem significant and terrible:
The Second Coming
Here is part of a little ditty by W.B.Yeats. Leave it to the Modernists to make the insignificant ramblings of a suburban trashette seem significant and terrible:
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all convictions, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Ah Yeats, why is it that melancholy assholes such as yourself can get jobs? I am, or at least was, a damn decent writer, and yes, I am beginning to lack conviction in my own abilities. Fuck, damn, shit, ass, cockknocker - at least my vocabulary has not suffered, though my ego is beaten to a pulp.
Ah Yeats, why is it that melancholy assholes such as yourself can get jobs? I am, or at least was, a damn decent writer, and yes, I am beginning to lack conviction in my own abilities. Fuck, damn, shit, ass, cockknocker - at least my vocabulary has not suffered, though my ego is beaten to a pulp.
posted by Suzy Perplexus at 4:06 p.m.
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