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Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Thoughts on Job Hunting, Bedtime, & Inter-species Love

I actually applied for jobs today, instead of just saying I did to appease my mom and really spending all day sitting around my house.  And thank God I did.  A large book chain (which shall remain nameless) finally got in touch, after jerking me around for the last two weeks or so, to say I hadn't gotten the position.  No hard feelings, though.  I just hope Babylon Bean comes through now.  That would be fun.

It's not that I don't want to find a job.  I do - I really do.  I need the money.  My summer job doesn't start for another month and a half.  I'm going stir crazy, being cooped in the house.  I'm just terrible at talking to people with some kind of authority.  I have some kind of mental roadblock to asking for a job application in person.  And I hate talking on the phone.  And I feel like an idiot when I just wander into stores and keep spouting about employment opportunities.  That all kind of makes asking, "Are you hiring?" tougher than it should be.  Maybe I just think things through too much.

But, hopefully, something will come of all this.  New coworkers, new friends, new romances (even if only imagined).  I pictured myself canoodling in the stacks at this local booksellers chain.  But I can find love in a coffee shop, too.

I just wish I knew how to make a latte.


Since when did eleven PM become early?  I feel like such a pansy when I head to bed before two AM nowadays.  Remember when bedtime was seven, eight o'clock, at the absolute latest?  There was a routine bordering on sacred ritual - teeth brushed, face washed, hair brushed, into bed, story read, nightlight on, goodnight kiss, lights out, into little girl dreams.  What did we dream about?  What compels us to seek the nothingness of the night as we get older?  Now, I feel like everyone's just drifting, avoiding, either coming home late or staying up late, often without reason.  Just staring at a screen, blinded by the light.  What happened?


My cat is in love with a fish.  And it isn't even a real fish.  His name is Cougar.  He is a four foot long, stuffed reproduction of a rainbow trout, purchased online from Bass Pro Shops.  In the backstory I've dreamed up for him, he is gay - flaming.  And he's in love with a strapping Russian marlin by the name of Badger.

But Kismet, my cat, doesn't care.  She is petite and feminine, agile and graceful - the perfect cat.  She makes those eyes that melt your heart and curls into a tiny ball to nap her days away.  She's a tabby with a thin tail and delicate, white-tipped paws.  She works her feminine wiles to the end of her sanity to win Cougar's affections.  She likes to laugh in the face of death by leaping off the refrigerator, fighting for her life to escape my cooing and cuddling, and balancing on the inch and a half on top of the front door as it, painfully slowly, swings shut on a summer's eve.

It will never work out between them, but she's a hopeless romantic.  She's had a thing for my dad since we first brought her home, after all.  I wake up every morning to see her curled against me, cuddling on top of Cougar with her back legs sprawled on the bedspread, her tail curled over her back paws, and one paw over her eyes, warding off the coming morning.  I wander in and out of my room all day, but she won't move until at least dinner.  She spends her days dreaming of the universe, waiting for love, blinking lazily at me when I wake her from her slumber.  She's beautiful.  If anyone has a shot at love with a big, gay, inanimate trout, it's Kiz.

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