I’m sure I’ve belabored this point before—when you
blog irregularly, and you don’t have that many followers, it’s somewhat more
logical to repeat yourself—but I have decided, yet again, to give up my job
search. In total, I think I was rejected
for seven or eight jobs over the course of the months from May to September
2016, although I did receive, for the first time in history, positive feedback
during the first interview. My second
interview proved yet again that I am far better on paper, as when I open my
mouth to answer the boilerplate questions, I might as well be speaking a
foreign language. My third interview
never happened at all—I was scheduled to meet with someone, told after I
arrived on time to wait until they were available, and then left to decay. I think it was probably a sign from above; I
wasn’t meant for the job. After thirty
minutes of waiting, I left. No one
called to check on me afterward, so perhaps it was a mutual sign of
discord. The other rejections were the
standard form emails, or no response at all, which is always a sign that A)
nobody wants to even bother calling to say no, or B) they’ve already hired
their cousin/uncle/childhood friend, and were only advertising the position
under the guise of fairness and equity.
People might read this and think I’m lazy—and don’t feel guilty, because I’ve had relatives not-so-subtly suggest that I am a shiftless, overeducated wimp—but I can assure you I am not. I didn’t go to college for seven years because I thought it might be fun—it decidedly was not—nor did I take out a ton of student loans to benefit my health. I wanted a good education, and I still want to work to earn a living. I would love to travel, marry, and have a family. Hell, I’d just love to have any kind of social life at this point. As it is, my primary interactions occur at the post office and public library; every few months, I talk to a neurologist, two or three nurses, and a few lab technicians. Otherwise, I spend more time alone that a scientist positioned at the North Pole weather station. It just seems as though the opportunities that are out there—or that I thought would be out there—are open to everyone but me. I never want to be arrogant, but I would actually love to have self-esteem at some point in my life. More often than not, I feel defective, as though I never developed the necessary skills needed for life. Perhaps when God was handing them out, I had stepped out of line to watch Days of our Lives. There are so many things others seem able to do without effort that don’t even seem within the realm of possibility for me. I have manners, and I try to be affable and kind toward people, but I’ve just never been what you would term gregarious. I may have been as a child, but my peers and teachers, at least from the age of ten on, quickly knocked that out of me. I can’t even whistle, for goodness’ sake! I’m pretty good at self-pity, though, and I was a decent writer before my brain grew a tumor and damaged my short-term memory.
If you’re reading this, better be sure to bundle
up. The first Arctic air of the season
is heading south. To quote the great
poet Jason Aldean, I could use a little more summertime.
