AUTHOR: Beth TITLE: DATE: 12/18/2003 04:04:00 PM ----- BODY:
Quarterlife Crisis Part Deux I have a question. How the fuck did it get to be Dec. 18th? Time's zipping by, which I suppose is better than the alternative. Sometimes, sitting here in my cubicle, typing out sentences like "Voltage drop shall be limited to not more than 1 percent from the power input connection at the main contact conductors to the input terminals of the crane main circuit breaker when the crane is operating with the greatest load condition and is at the maximum distance from the point of connection of the power feeder," things are actually nice. My fingers are flying at about 85 gwm, with minimal typos, and I can look around my cubicle and see Lawyer Milloy and Ty Law and Nomar and Manny and Roger and Tedy and Trent and Chuck staring back at me, or I can just sit and feel it beginning in my brain, the great and all-encompassing hum of stagnation, a profound "Om" rattling up through my wrists to my lower jaw and spreading to the tiny bones inside my ears until it blocks out all sound and there's nothing but a strange feeling of nauseous peace. Other days I look around and think, what am I doing. What am I doing with my life. Usually on those days (today is one of them), it's like I've just woken up after thinking I was just going to blink my eyes for a few seconds and it's another month later. I look around and see that there are STILL no jobs in journalism, or publishing, or anything other than medical transcription, it seems. Those medical transcriptionists--what's their secret? I suppose this should make me feel better about all those hypothetical opportunities I'm hypothetically missing out on, but this doesn't stop some people from getting book deals for their blogs and the like, things that make me crushingly depressed. Why can't I get a book deal? Is it because I use curse words so often? Because I hotlink pictures? Yeah, that's bad. I'll stop. Whatever you want. I still have not once, not even a single time, made "Blogs of Note." What am I doing. What the fuck is the point of my life. I can't go on smoking cigarettes and reading novels in my car, sticking my head in the proverbial sand. I can't go on typing out Government Specifications for Overhead Lifting Systems. I suppose I'm lucky in a way, given that many of the jobs I've seen hunting for reporter positions today have been for WAY less money and benefits than I'm making now, and the fact that for me, unlike for many of my friends, one job is sufficient and I don't have to shoot up any cats with a syringe. Yeah, I suppose that's good. What am I doing. What is going on with my stupid, idiotic, meaningless life? Someone give me just a little hint, please.