Failure is Not My Muse

NaNoWriMo gives me the following advice:

Tell everyone you know that you're writing a novel in November. [...] Seriously. Email them now about your awesome new book. The looming specter of personal humiliation is a very reliable muse.

Humiliation. Well, that used to be a great motivator for me. Lately, however, the fear of failure has been sending me directly to failure. For example: Recently, a job became available as desk help at a local hotel. I was incredibly excited by this. So excited that I began to worry about being rejected. Getting an e-mail from a fast food place telling me that they have no open positions I am qualified for is an annoyance. Getting one from some massive Graphic Design company is disappointing. This was something which felt reachable.

The first day, I sat at my computer and tried to distract myself enough to calm down. The second day, swamped with guilt, I lay in bed alternately staring at the wall and sleeping. The third day, I hid beneath the covers and cried.

I later confessed my nerves to my father, a huge mistake on my part. I should know better by now than to hope for encouragement. Instead, he reminded me that a former boss of mine (a woman I couldn't stand, who fired me when Workforce Development stopped paying her back half my wages) eventually left to work at this hotel.

"I was fired from that job, you know," I told him. He just grinned. I don't know why. Why was he grinning at me? He seemed to think it amusing. Anyway, I spent the next two days alternately sitting at my computer and sleeping, and never went in to get an application.

Despite the likelihood that I will not manage to write a 50,000 word rough draft of a novel, I have told a couple people.

I will not be telling my family. As much as I long for their approval and support, that is not what I would get, if anyone managed to read it. Whatever I write seems to apply directly to them. My sister read a play I wrote, which was based on characters I'd used and changed multiple times; she decided that I had made her a cripple and was bashing her.

Actually, the only reason the main character had a brother at all was that I originally created the pair for a role-playing site which needed more single male characters. I crippled the brother for the same reason I killed his mother in my play, to give my protagonist a deep source for his guilt. Not because my parents are divorced and... I don't even know why I'd injure my sister. Except that she trashed my work.

So there's no reason for me to worry about pleasing anyone with what I write. I'm telling you, because you're all very supportive and I love you all to pieces, and two of my friends know. If I fail, I will not feel humiliated, and that's good. Now I just need to decide what to write about.

Hire Me, I'm a Liar

I'm about to lie on this next batch of job applications.

I've been searching for two years (with periodic breaks/breakdowns) and the only time I made it to an interview, all my charm and optimism did me no good; I had just convinced the hiring manager that I only wanted to use my art degree for freelance work, but what I really wanted was something steady. I loved Arby's and would be thrilled to be the store manager.

She walked away from me, looked at another application, then asked the man how he would get there every day, since he'd listed that he didn't have a car. He wasn't sure, and he'd never been employed... she asked when he could start.

So, lies and cheating, since the truth has gotten me nowhere.

I'm going to stop listing my Bachelor of Fine Arts. No one knows what it means anyway, and it just makes me sound pretentious. My high school degree, as long ago as it was, will do.

I'm going to combine all the jobs I worked at University into one long-term job. If all you do is glance at the page and I've worked five places, it's got to look bad, but my title was "Student Worker" at all of them. So, from now on, I was "Student Worker" at University for three years. When they ask what I did, I'll list what I did where, and my supervisor can be the supervisor from my final position.

I've tried to keep in touch with people from college. One of my two possible professor references (assuming I decided to list my degree after all, in a fit of insanity) has died, and the other is a hipster, which I'm not saying is necessarily a bad thing, but I admitted that I had a PC in front of him and he couldn't stop laughing. By the way, Macs are for people who don't know how to use computers.

I went there.

One of my close college friends has since decided I'm lame because I was unable to get a job within a month, and because she got married to a wealthy guy and I was apparently a charity project, so I've lost her (good riddance), whittling my contact list down to...

K: Friend in college. Trained me for a week in a student position she was leaving.
Peer: Trained for position as graphic designer at University.

E: Friend. We met while writing role-play for a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing, group projects, personal research.

H: Friend: Also met role-playing on a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing... You can see where I'm going with this.

I know, normally when one lies on an application it's to make oneself look better. You want to inflate your own importance, make yourself seem even more valuable than you are. Well, I tried that for the first year, when I was actually looking for Graphic Design positions. However, it's been almost three years, and I just need a job. I need money so that I can stop living with relatives and feed myself without government assistance.

Hey, you say. This is another complaint post about unemployment!

It's about time you caught on. Seriously though, it's a completely different angle this time.

I'm a terrible liar. I can do it on paper, but if one of these places actually calls me in, I can imagine the look on my face if someone said, "You've never had a job, at your age?" I know, it's a hamburger-flipping job and saying That's right, never been employed, I've always depended on the kindness of strangers. *cough* I mean, I cared for the home while my significant other/family member/pet iguana brought in the money is more likely to get me that entry-level position than Yes, I have a degree, but I swear I want to work here, and I'll do a really awesome job!

It's funny, in that way that's only funny if you tilt your head; when I was applying for Design jobs, my friends and family got onto me about being picky. Now I tell them that Pizza Hut sent me a "We currently have no positions which you are qualified for" e-mail and get responses like, Well, duh. That's because you're over-qualified.

My sister tells me (though I already know) that I have to stop submitting my resume. I have a nice resume. The guy from Apple was impressed, though sadly he hated my portfolio and wasn't hiring anyway.

I have several resumes. I have my Design resume, my Clerical/Office resume, and my Generic resume, which states my objective as looking for a "challenging" position. Why the hell does the McDonald's website ask you to upload your resume if it doesn't want it? That's the trap I fall into. I see the "Upload Resume or CV" button, and I have to click it.

But no more.

I have a high school diploma from many years ago, and have never worked. I have low standards, and will take any job you offer me. Speaking of which, do you know anyone who's hiring? I'm willing to move if relocation is paid for.

The 90's Called, They Want Their Prank Back

Yesterday I received a prank call. I dealt with it in an adult fashion, trying not to snicker too much, notifying the caller that he had the wrong number, and hanging up rather than continue to feed the troll. A good friend suggested something less mature, but far more amusing, that I could have said. My sister suggested something else, also amusing, but not likely to solve the problem.

Keep all that in mind as you read my responses to the text I received this evening, from the same local mobile number.

     Heyo yet [sic, I say, sic to infinity!] have Cheyenne duffys number

     No but she said she's got the strap-on ready. U gotta bring the lube this time. Yolo

     What the f*?

     She says she likes em big and black. She's out, man. Just grab some KY on the way.

     Mkay lets go

     Gotta get rid of some1 first. Cops are all up in my grill bout that junk you gave me.

     Well don't get caught next time and that won't happen

     K, they're gone, but don't kill me man, they just wanna ask you a couple questions, y'know?

     Yea i got the lube lets go

     Where you at, boo?

     My house

     I'm with L~ and H~, you better get your ass down here b4 we start without you.

     Im stuck here you come here

At this point I wondered what I was doing. I'm an adult, and here I was in a text-hijacking battle with what I assumed to be a random teenager. Not to mention the kid kept tripping me up by playing along. How long was I willing to keep this up? And how the hell could I win?

Competitive Streak: 1
Good Sense: 0

     L~ has my pants, I'm stuck too

     Sucks to suck

     You oughtta ask Cheyenne bout that, you know what I mean?

     No I Don't have her number

Damn, good one. I had to ponder that, and this time my friend didn't have any witty comebacks for me. She did, however, have Cat Facts. For the one of you out there who doesn't love clicking link trails, a brief summary (and my response to I Don't have her number):

     Thanks for signing up for Cat Facts! You will now receive fun daily facts about CATS! >o<

     Okay

Wait, Okay? That's not how it's supposed to go! I decided to make the best of it and regaled my new text-buddy/subscriber with interesting facts, such as:

     Cats use their tails for balance and have nearly 30 individual bones in them!

     That's cool

Really? Oh, a tough one, are you? Yes, actually. It was a Troll battle, me giving cat facts, him remarking that they were interesting, me asking him to prove he's human by stating his favorite animal, him answering with Cat. It was a full hour before I received Who the f* is this, which I admit I'd been hoping for much sooner.

I replied with a Cat Fact. And since he hadn't responded to my offer to cancel hourly Cat Facts, I sent another one an hour later. And another an hour after that, with another opportunity to cancel.

     Cats bury their feces to cover their trails from predators. [To cancel Cat Facts reply 'dghdfjnhddhtd56666443hgfdfefuutregjbvcyu65468990']

     'dghdfjnhddhtd56666443hgfdfefuutregjbvcyu65468990']

Yes! I was finally getting somewhere! Maybe we could end this peacefully, after all. But alas, I'm a smart-ass, and so I asked for confirmation.

     Are you sure you want to cancel? Life without Cat Facts is not as fulfilling. [Reply YES to cancel]

     No

     Thanks for signing up for Cat Facts. You will continue to receive Cat Facts every [hour].

Only I didn't make it another hour. This being the real world, I got a phone call shortly after the Cat Facts renewal, from a very sleepy-sounding, very confused-sounding, woman. So I had to be a grown-up again. I related a brief account of having received a call and multiple texts from that number, from a teenage boy, and then apologized for having disturbed her so late at night.

Whoops.

Is Your Refrigerator Running?

I got a random phone call today. I always answer in my most respectable voice, just in case it's a job offer. Who knows, maybe someone sent my resume to someone who sent my resume to someone who somehow got it in front of some bigwig at Disney and now I'm going to become a famous designer. Or maybe it's the bank and they're willing to hire me as a part-time teller.

Or maybe not.

Hey, can I ask you something?

me: Excuse me, who is this?

It's Javon, can I ask you something?

me: This is Lyric, I think you have the wrong number.

Lyric? Can I ask you something?

me: Sure, go ahead.

Are you DTF?

me: *tries not to laugh* No, but thank you.

What if I'm black?

me: *hangs up*

A friend suggested that I should have offered Javon a turn with a hypothetical strap-on, but alas, I was too busy being amused at receiving a true prank call, something I thought went out of style with the invention of Caller I.D.

Poor kid. He and his laughing friend would have had a lot more fun with someone who'd never heard the term DTF before. Maybe I'll call him back in a couple days when he's forgotten me.

Depression Theatre: Popping the Bubble

I understand why people kill themselves, and I shouldn't, and I don't want to. I believe in Hell, even when I'm so pissed off and disillusioned that it doesn't feel like anything could exist but the pain. There's not even a reason for it! I cried when a nurse practitioner told me it was low thyroid, because that can cause depression. That's a reason. And I cried again when my regular doctor took me off the thyroid medicine because it was making my heart race, making it impossible to sleep or think, and because that meant it was just depression again.

If you believe the whole brain chemicals thing, it shouldn't make a difference. If you don't believe it, just knowing me is enough to prove it's got to be more than dramatics. I can't control it, God, I wish I could. My eleven year old has better emotional control than I do. She'll freak out at little things, because kids do that, but in half an hour, she's back to herself. Half an hour later, I'm still reminding myself not to do anything stupid. Same an hour later. Same for days, sometimes.

I even have reasons to be depressed, real reasons to be ever-so-slightly discouraged about life. I worked my ass off in school, worked my ass off to go to college, and it seems like life keeps shitting on me. It shits on everyone, I know. It's my own fault for making bad decisions, I know. I should be able to just get over it, just work through it like everyone else does, but the littlest things can set me back so far.

Someone reminds me of my faults, and I'm useless for days, just hating myself. I know logically that I'm smart, I'm a good writer, good designer, good artist, good parent, but none of that means anything because smart doesn't get me a job. Good writer, designer, artist, doesn't get me a job, doesn't get me I don't know, love or something. I don't even know what I want.

Do I want a house of my own? Yes. I would like to get my life out of storage after almost three years. I would like my daughter to have a space all of her own, and all of her toys. I'd like to be able to stop telling her I'm sorry, that's in storage, and tell my family, I can't get that for you, or I can't find out, because that's in storage, too.

I'm not a big guy, so I let someone else pack the storage unit. He and his friend piled stuff up in such a cluster that I can't get it apart without either injuring myself or going into a rage and just breaking it all. My paintings are supporting box corners and there are beer bottles scattered around. My belongings don't remain in storage because I'm lazy.

This is where I'd complain again about being unemployed if I hadn't done so a hundred times before. A note on that subject, though. Pizza Hut sent me an e-mail after I applied saying they don't have any jobs I'm qualified for.

My friends get sick of the drama. I don't blame them.

I feel like a complete waste of life having to hide the scissors when I get like this. I've never hurt myself like that, and I don't like even the urge to do it. I can't control that, either. I don't sit down and say, I'm miserable. I want to cut to punish myself/to show people how much I hurt/to remind myself that I really am alive, and I can still feel.

I've been over that before, too.

Why do you even bother?

Because I don't have a choice.

There's always a choice. Your choices got you here.

I tried! I tried to do the best I could. I listened to my parents even when I didn't want to, I never did drugs, I never sneaked out, I didn't even teach myself to cuss until college. I was nice to people who were mean to me. I've tried to be everything anyone ever wanted me to be, so why can't something go right?

Because you don't get anywhere being nice. People are attracted to confidence. They want someone who knows their own mind. What the hell do you know?

I don't know.

Exactly.

And I'd continue trying to convince my inner critic that I'm worth something, but the mind blank just got me. Sometimes it's annoying. Sometimes I'm in the middle of telling someone something, maybe explaining to my sister why I'm acting even more pseudo-emo than usual. Then poof I've got no clue what I was saying.

It's trying to get me again. I'm having trouble stringing together sentences, but right now, I'm fine with that. I was feeling really bad a few minutes ago.

So, to paraphrase: I was having suicidal thoughts and self-harm thoughts, and chose to blog while listening to Don't Jump, by Tokio Hotel. The depression bubble popped. I'm still miserable, but no longer leaking from my face (highly unpleasant, that) and no longer thinking, self-harm or otherwise. If I wasn't out of cereal, I'd go have myself a bowl of comfort food.

Moment passed, nothing to see here. Move along.

*insert amusing cheese factory anecdote here*

Dear DIY Ancestors,

Doing it yourself is not always the correct choice. You may realize that now, as you're sitting up in Heaven in that pink hotel room that you allegedly described to Aunt Martyr that one time on the Ouija board. If, however, you are above all that nonsense, I would like to draw your attention to one tiny little detail down here that you've likely forgotten.

Remember in the 80's when my great-grandmother's allergies were killing her, and you nailed all the windows in the house shut? And when having closed windows didn't help, you then caulked all the seams and painted over everything? And how when it still didn't work you moved to Arizona?

Well, I happen to be living here now, due to unforeseen circumstances, and the window a/c which was bought secondhand 28 years ago has now officially died, and I would like to open a window.

Perhaps I shouldn't address this to my ancestor at all (and, by the way, I know exactly which one of you did this. I think we knew each other well enough for me to be honest). Perhaps I should address this to people who are still among the living, who jury-rig things because it's easier than doing it right.

Now, I'm not criticizing those who read up or take someone's advice on home repair. I'm certainly not criticizing those who simply can't afford a big fix and need something to last them until a better fix is available. We're all in that spot from time to time.

I also realize that twenty-some years ago, people didn't understand things like fire safety, and the need to be able to escape through a window that doesn't open up over the hole that goes to the basement. That was sarcasm, sorry. But I've been told you're the one who made these odd renovations, and not for lack of money. Of course, that money is gone now, but that's another story entirely.

I suppose the point of this letter is to say that it's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit in here, with 70% humidity, and I've considered just breaking the window to get some air. I will get through these windows. Even if it takes a good, hefty rock.

Sincerely,
The Quiet One

PRIVACY NOTICE

Warning: any person and/or institution and/or Agent and/or Agency and/or fanboy/fangirl and/or stalker or any governmental structure (except the high school I graduated from, you know who you are) including but not limited to the United states Federal Government, the government of any nation in, on, or near any continent whose name begins with an A, an E, or any other recognized letter, the moon, Mars, or Venus (excluding Venus's southern hemisphere) monitoring/using/not using/unaware of this website, any of its associated websites, or any unrelated websites...

*pauses for air*

...you do NOT have my permission to steal everything I've ever written under all my various pseudonyms (because I acknowledge that you are all-knowing, omnipotent, know when I am sleeping, know when I'm awake, know when I've been bad or good, but I'm good, for goodness sake so stop watching me pee!) and use it to better the world, including my pictures, and use them to throw darts at, including my art, and draw mustaches, then say you drew it.

Because, of course, the government has nothing better to do than break into random Joe Blow's Facebook and download pictures of his rottweiler sleeping with the new kitten or his kids sitting in a wading pool. In fact, their intention is to steal the pictures of every middle-class person with a Facebook account, edit them in Photoshop, then use this doctored photography to throw them into one of the many empty prisons just sitting around.

Oh damn, I got sidetracked.

You are hereby notified that you are strictly prohibited from disclosing, copying, distributing, disseminating, or taking any other action against me with regard to my stuff that I already mentioned. Even if it's illegal. Especially if its legal status is questionable. Because I know that telling you not to prosecute me means that you can't. In fact, I could go rob a bank, but if I told everyone in the bank before I robbed it that they are hereby notified that they can't identify me in a police lineup or a court of law, they are legally forbidden from doing so. Because I said hereby, and that means business.

(Note: I have never robbed a bank, and I don't intend to, just saying.)

The foregoing prohibitions (See? I said foregoing too. Ha on you, loser!) also apply to anyone I forgot to mention, including Venus's southern hemisphere, your employees (yes, yours), agents, students, friends, families, and any pets capable of speech, whether they're under your direction/control or not.

In other words, consider everything I've ever done, even if I posted it on the internet for the world to see and checked the "public" button on my privacy/security settings, private and legally privileged and confidential blah blah, blah, the violation of my personal privacy is punishable by law.

Celebrities are so dumb not putting signs up or wearing buttons that say this stuff on them, because if they did, they wouldn't have to worry about paparazzi anymore.

Wait, what's this? Is it a link? I wonder where it goes...

Fear-mongering: bored of it.

So one time at the cheese factory, I told them that they were legally forbidden from firing me, and they didn't. No, just kidding, I never said that and anyway, I quit that place.