My birthday was this week, so it's been a few days of collecting gifts and generally pretending I'm still ten years old, instead of twenty-nine. Which if you think about it is a frightening number, especially given my general dissatisfaction with the state of my career. And by general dissatisfaction I don't mean the sort of blasé disenfranchisement that I feel towards say the last few Jimmy Eat World albums, but rather a magnetic repulsion that's growing stronger every day.
My job search has gone poorly, with not even so much as a call back from any of the places that I've been applying to. And it's not like I've been applying only to places that are a bit of a stretch for me, but places like the eBay call centre and IKEA don't even seem to be interested in me right now. Whatever it is that I'm selling just isn't what people are buying at the moment.
Things seem to be rather stuck in a moment I can't get out of for now, with my only real forward motion possibility figuring out my education and getting back into some courses at UBC in January. Until then I'm sort of just spinning my wheels. I am applying for a job in Parskville, so you know I could be a small town reporter on Vancouver Island before you know it.
The irony being that in a few hours I'm going to be giving a presentation at a Canadian University Press conference on how to be a freelance writer. Of course I'm still a ways off being able to support myself full time with freelancing, and truthfully that's not really the goal. I'm not enough of a salesman, ironically, to be able to be out digging up work every day of the year. I want to write, not sell myself. If I wanted to do that I'd go into prostitution, or black market organ donation.