Monday, February 07, 2005

The Call of My Bed

It's official. I'm entering my fifth week of being unemployed and utterly bored. My sister, a brilliant PhD-hopeful at UCSB, empathized with my situation, having spent her own purgatory in Scotland, waiting for her husband to finish up a degree at the University of Edinburgh. Being unemployed sucks. It's boring and this sense of laziness infects me until I can barely move at all.

Of course, the fact that it's the dead of winter isn't entirely helpful either. It's cold and isolating. There are definitely days when the most entertaining conversations I have are with my cats and somehow, pretending a purring kitten is a great conversationalist only cements that pathetic and despondent feeling that a fruitless job search generates.

Honestly. My goal this week is to apply for two jobs every day. I know it doesn't sound impressive, and that's probably because it's not. Somehow, when I drop my application at a movie theatre or an office or the library, I always feel silly because I know I'm ridiculously overqualified for the post. Every interview I have, they ask me, "so, why are you applying for this job when you have a master's degree?" I feel like throttling these people and ranting about how I need to feed my damn kittens and pay my rent, same as the idiot with a 70 IQ they'll hire after I leave. Growl.

The repitition of these experiences breeds such a hostility for the process that I'm content to lay around in bed all day doing nothing at all. In fact, I'm one of the few people I know who has the remarkable ability to sleep 15 hours a day. Of course, it helps when there's no good reason to be awake. I mean, if I have a choice between cleaning my house or sleeping, which option do you think I'll choose?

Naturally, I then become depressed that my house is dirty and thus, I sleep even more to ignore the obvious chaos around me.


I'm lethargic and unhappy. My meager savings is dwindling. I feel like I'm watching a car crash develop, but there's nothing I can do to stop it.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. And maybe a hundred monkeys typing on a hundred typewriters will produce the next great American novel.