Given that apparently I’m going to be residing in the penguin habitat known as North Carolina for approximately the next month and a half, I’ve decided to fill my days with something slightly more useful than watching CSI reruns and memorizing the backs of my cereal boxes. [Cinnamon. Life. Cereal. And everybody said “Amen”.] I’ve decided to…
Find a job.
Stage lights fade to black.
On July 6th, come hell or high water, my cowgirl boots and I will be hopping on a Raleigh bound plane never to return to Dakar.
Okay, so that may be a bit of an overstatement. The point is that I will no longer be working in Dakar, no longer be working for Crusade, and thus, will need to find a new way to pay rent and keep myself caffeinated. And let me tell you, nothing causes the old flight-or-flight response to kick in quite like the loathsome prospect of finding a job.
…emphasis on “flight”.
I feel like a senior in college all over again. What am I going to be when I grow up? Am I already grown up? Is this real life? It is with no small amount of disgust that I have recently come to the startling realization that [brace yourselves]: I am quite possibly the most unmarketable person on the planet. Truly, if that electric blanket quits on me, there is the distinct possibility that I will use my diploma as kindling to stay warm.
I am unwaveringly convinced that nothing in the world is quite as soul-shattering as summing yourself up on that mind-numbing little piece of paper commonly known as a resume. I find myself bemoaning the fact that I ever went to see a movie in college, when I could have been curing pancreatic cancer or rescuing Bulgarian kittens. But no-I just couldn’t say no to Zac Efron’s irresistibly cute little Cheeto orange face. Poor kittens never stood a chance.
And then in a fit of sheer brilliance, I decided it would be a wise idea to major in psychology. Psychology! I ought to have my head examined. And Lord knows, I’m not qualified to examine a darn thing because I have a useless undergrad degree in PSYCHOLOGY, which essentially means that I’m qualified to steam lattes and march my butt straight back to school.
Undergraduates: no matter how practical it may seem right now, do not major in psychology. Or languages. Unless, of course, you have no particular attachment to food. Do your future a square one and just fugghedaboutit. That one’s for free.
Right now I’m seriously considering taking up balloon sculpting. Or I would, except I’m deathly afraid of clowns-and where a balloon is, a clown is never far behind. Maybe I could be a backup dancer for Beyonce.
…except, then we run into the whole clown issue again.
Excuse the lack of cohesive thought-that’s simply the staccato nature of how my mind has been working as of late. Clearly, I am currently taking life-plan suggestions. If you come up with something brilliant, you can reach me in the kitchen. I need to practice my latte steaming technique.