It's been about two months since I last posted here, and as I never officially let the blog go - I've decided to come back. Below you'll find something I posted as a note, but just recently decided to make more widely available. Hopefully this marks the beginning of my return to le public blogosphere.
As I lay here agonizing over what profession I want to choose for my life, it occurs to me that life would be vastly easier if nurses would simply put post-it notes with predetermined jobs on them on our foreheads when we’re born. But I guess that sounds too much like communism, so I here I sit, contemplating my existence and what it means to be a broke, black woman in 2011 who can’t even afford to shop at Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale.
I constantly agonize over my decision to leave graduate school – which for a science major is as close to a “cushy” job as one will ever get straight out of college. Sure, $22,000 a year with health and dental sounds great (especially to the unemployed and uninsured), but when you find out that you spend 40 soul sucking hours in a dungeon missing everything but the second coming and the invention of zombies, and that your insurance DOES NOT COVER the cost of the zombie vaccine, you start to think that maybe homelessness isn’t as bad as it sounds. Add to that the near absolute certainty that you’ll have to devote 10-15 more hours of your precious, precious time to training the undergraduate drones AND deduct 6-7 years from your already short life (when compared to vampires, werewolves and politicians) you come to the realization that life is too fucking short and $22,000 is not enough fucking money.
And, if you’re at all like me, you’ll pack up (most) your shit and leave, only to sit in a dark room all hours of the day placing application after application while waiting for the cicadas to come and carry you off to their baby making farm (get on your knees and thank the heavens if it’s not cicada season where you are). Then, you’ll start to think that maybe leaving grad school wasn’t the most informed decision.
I’ve contemplated a job as a stripper - I mean, given it serious thought. All the way to mimicking the dance moves I think a stripper might employ. But, that job may not be the best for me – I sometimes find it hard to shower due to the sheer amount of naked skin involved. I also chased my boyfriend (who has a cold) around the room with some Lysol spray last night – so one might suppose that I’ve got an issue with germs.
Yep, stripping is out.
So far, I’ve applied to be your local cable guy (testicles optional), delivery driver (car not included), pizza maker (mustache required), waitress, test-tubey drink girl (no, you can’t have the test tubes), administrative assistant/secretary/receptionist, animal lab tech (aka “will endure being pissed on by mice for pay” tech), call center phone person, pharmacy tech (because I loves the drugs), and the list goes on.
At this point – I’m ready to stand on the busiest corner in the city holding a sign that says – will drink gasoline and fart fire for money.
But, until Kinko’s finishes my sign, I’m still sending out applications to any place that’ll have me. I hunted down some local bakeries, citing my love of baking and my desire (but financial inability) to attend the local school of the culinary (pronounced kew-linary, say it with me now) arts. I’m hoping some kind soul will have pity and enough income to award me a part time job.
In the meantime – this is part one of my semi-autobiographical story, tentatively entitled – “Drinking Gasoline and Farting Fire: or, how I survived my escape from graduate school.”
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