My OkCupid profile says I’m an editor. Today I got this first message: “Hi there is there still a big demand for editors? I’d honestly like to know.”
Ahem.
*finger guns*
That one’s free.
I’ve been discussing career goals with a friend, because I’ve been feeling totally stuck in what I’m doing, and I feel seven kinds of shitty** about it, just allllll the self-doubt/loathing, staring down the barrel of a TON of work and thought to figure out what my next move should be, because I have no idea.
Friend’s response:
“I have always thought someone should pay you lots of money just to be you and write what you already write. I don’t know exactly who that should be — Cracked, Bustle, Jezebel, The Mary Sue, various advertisers for your personal blog? — but I very much want it to happen. I know you do too, I just thought you should know that I read a LOT online and I would read all your stuff even if I didn’t know you. Just saying.”
Awwwww! You guys! ❤
I mentioned this predicament to another friend, and SHE complimented my writing, too!
“I know you’re not fishing for compliments, but I LOVE reading you. Anything you write is super smart, quick, and has so much relatable stuff with large dose of humor and humility. You seem like you have a treasure of stories you could write about family, men, and relationships. WRITE!!! For me.”
I was not fishing (nor am I now), but DAMN, I should’ve done this YEARS ago! Ego. Boosted. My friends are like my self-esteem fluffers!
** There actually does exist a chart ranking the seven kinds of shit. The reason I know this is not as disgusting as you might think, but, I mean, possessing that knowledge is really never IDEAL… I’m going to stop talking now.
Pop quiz: I’m getting my hair cut and colored tomorrow. At what age do we think dyeing it pink looks a little midlife-crisis-y?
A. Pink?! Who are you, late-’90s Gwen Stefani? That shit is passé. (And quite possibly also bananas.)
B. Your age (41). It becomes sad at your age.
C. Wow, your mother really fucked you up about age as a limitation, didn’t she?
D. I mean…it’s your call, but good luck getting that job you applied for.
E. Age doesn’t mean anything, do whatever you want.*
*By the way, this is what I’m doing. If I wake up tomorrow and feel like my hair should be pink, then pink it shall be. I was just curious about perceptions.
Check it out, y’all, I’m not even a narcissist. This blog is for SCIENCE.
Via Inc.com: The Mental Health Benefits of Writing, Backed by Science:
That’s actually how the page started, as ersatz breakup therapy — I thought I could just write my way sane. As it turns out, I needed REAL therapy, but am still a filthy whore for those red “like” notifications, and the writing definitely helps, so I kept it up. Along with a private journal. And a Twitter. And a new blog where I work clean so I can put it on my résumé.
Don’t judge me. “I just have a lot of feelings.”
Note to self: You can not apply for a boring-ass job just because there are cute boys on the “Our Team” page.
Back of brain: “Are we sure?”
Yes, we’re sure. Stop thinking with your clitoris.
One of the worst things about having my whole family on my personal Facebook is that, in the past 24 hours, at least one of them has likely seen me “like” four different wineries, the Philly chapter of a suicide prevention organization, multiple rape counseling centers, and a national association for depression and mood disorders.
Um…it’s research?
Honestly, I just want to tour the wineries; I’m doing a 5K to support the suicide prevention group because I think it’s an important cause; I’m looking for a job at the counseling centers; and…well, I’m a depraved bastard who’s interested in mood disorders. *shrug* Y’all raised me.
It sucks seeing a Social Media Specialist job I want to apply for, requiring experience with WordPress and asking for samples. ‘Cause… I HAVE the experience. WordPress is my bitch. But it’s not like I can send them that post about a guy from OkCupid wanting to take out his fake teeth and go down on me.
I should start another blog and call it Working Clean. 🙂
(This is also my problem with local blogger meet-ups. “Hi, I write publicly about my vagina. Let’s connect professionally.”)
Another on office attraction…
Um, no, YOU’RE taking a former coworker’s LinkedIn post looking for a new job as an opportunity to lure him and his giant hands into your office, OR just to give him your phone number.
Shut up.
I met him at my last job, shook his hand, and immediately wanted to have sex with him. He’s literally the only person I’ve known on sight I wanted to sleep with — normally it starts with, “I can work with your face and body” and gets more/less intense with conversation. This guy, I don’t even care if he has a personality, as long as those hands do things to me.
This may or may not be influenced by the fact that my libido has been on absolute CRACK for the past 5 days. I think I need an actual person, one with weight, so he can, um…get the job done correctly. Silicone’s just not working for me anymore.
I don’t THINK he’s married, but it’s been about 18 months since I’ve seen him, so who knows. He has my number now, though, so he can do with it, and me, whatever he wants.
“Inside-her info” — job/company information you get from someone you’re sleeping with.
It’s pretty bad that I’m nervous about getting a job partly because I know my over/under (erm, so to speak…) on getting involved with coworkers. I run mental fuck numbers on passers-by while I wait for my interviewers.
Of course, maybe getting some ass on a conference room table will help me forget the two hopeless crushes I have.
Dare to dream, people. Dare to dream.
Smug Singleton 