Pilot: Under-Employed and Over-Joyed

Here I am.

It’s Monday. Approximately 4 p.m.

Sitting on my parents’ couch. Watching Jewelry TV because I find the slow rotation of sparkly things and the scripted enthusiasm for absolute junk to be relaxing. And maybe I dreamed a dream once of being a hand model.

I’ve been day-drinking. Skinny Girl Pina Colada, open and serve. Which, ever the one to follow directions to a T, I did just that. Additionally, I’ve been plowing my way through a bag of croutons, effectively sending out a nice “Screw you!” to my low carb diet of the past three months.

Watered-down rum and stale bread.

This is the shape that unemployment takes.

Who’s seen the movie Bridesmaids? There’s something almost romantic about Kristen Wiig’s character’s descent into unemployment, moving back in with her mother, crying on the couch to ‘Castaway’. It’s a commentary about the ups and downs of life that we can all relate to, because we’ve all been there—we’ve all experienced the awkwardity of physically being an adult while our minds rail against it. Hell, just last night I was crying at 3 a.m. because an infomercial for Oxy Clean came on featuring the late Billy Mays.

But, inevitably, through the magic of a movie montage, things pick back up, the protagonist falls back on her skills, she overturns a rock in her backyard to find that motivation had been lurking underneath the entire time, and there’s a ray of light-hope in the distance.

It’s just, the entire process takes 8 minutes.

I’ve been here on this couch for 8 months.

Nobody told me to expect this. I can vividly remember sitting at commencement, listening to Sanjay Gupta spout about the wonders of the world, and how I was going to charge in, grab life by its proverbial balls, and demand an audience.

It didn’t happen.

Instead, I’ve started off the year with a job-applying blitzkrieg. In the past two and a half weeks, I’ve sent out an upwards of fifty resumes and cover letters. I have no doubt that by the time I land that elusive entry-level first grown-up, real-girl job, it’ll be ten times as many. I’ve received five rejections and radio silence on everything else. I’ve scoured articles, networked with everyone to whom I’ve ever said the phrase, ‘Hi, I’m Sylvia’, received critiques on my resume and cover letters.

Nothing.

And it’s near impossible to keep optimistic. Let’s not pretend otherwise.

This feels like your worst breakup. This feels like stepping on the scale for the first time in a year and holy shit I did NOT gain twenty pounds. This feels like hearing people talk about you behind your back. This feels like getting blamed for something that’s not your fault.

In a word (or a few): this fucking sucks.

So, let’s talk about it.

A friend of mine in college had this gem of wisdom to pass along: either make good choices or make good memories.

While I’m not entirely convinced that this blog is a good choice, I only pray that it put a smile on your unemployed face just the same.

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