Thursday, May 30, 2013

Day 376:

It's been over a year since I graduated with my Master's degree in English. In Creative Writing. Perfect. And in that time, I have had one job. A job that I got only a month and a half ago. Today, I quit. That makes it sound more ballsy than it was. I put in my two weeks, and today was my last day. In over 365 days, I've worked (at a paying job) for only 45 days. Give or take.

So here I am. Sent home early from my last day of work because there weren't enough reports to edit for the whole QC team. Staring at this same screen that I've started at for the past year, wondering if I'll ever get a job, a real job, and job that uses my degree, a job that in some way doesn't degrade me as a human being. And the answer, as boring and unbrilliant as it is: I don't know.

I don't.

My story is a long story. Long, and boring. And that's just it: it's boring. I'm bored with it, and I've had to live it for the last 28 years (I guess it's not that long after all). And I'm still living it, and will live until I'm dead. We all do. Whether we like it or not. I don't like it, only because it's mine. I see other people, see their lives, and I think, "Yah, I'd be okay with that. A house, a real job, solitude." Not having to live with my parents anymore. Not having to eat the same food, drink the same water, see the same house and trees and asphalt. You know what I'm talking about. At least some of you do. The terror you feel when you realize that you spent thousands of hours, and thousands of dollars, and all you have are two pieces of paper that some state junky photocopied at Kinko's, but the people who are getting jobs, and having lives, didn't go to college; the feeling you get when all you think is that you made a terrible mistake, a turn you took when you should have stayed straight, but there's no going back because you can't afford it, and there's no time, and you suddenly forgot how to drive the car and it's heading for a cliff. It's like this comic I read a few months back:

A college graduate is talking to a therapist.
"So what's the trouble," the therapist asks.
"When I was younger, I was told that if I didn't want to be flipping burgers at McDonalds, I needed to go college and get a degree. Well, now I have two, and people are calling me an entitled asshole because I won't just go take that job at McDonalds."

And that's where I'm at. I don't want that crappy job where the pay is nothing, the hours terrible, and no one speaks the same language as each other. Where all day (or night) long you have to deal with people who think they are more important than the universe itself, and yet they can't get their own belts around their waists without someone assisting them. I've worked too hard and too long for that.
I don't want that. I don't deserve that.

That's why I quit.

I don't know what's next. Everyone wants to know what I'm going to do. And I don't know. And I don't care anymore. This is my adventure, and I'll walk whichever way I want to.