Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Seven Habits of Highly Effective Psychotics.

Ohmygod. Holy shit.

Did you know that I am going to GRADUATE from LAW SCHOOL in ONE YEAR? OHMYGOD.

This means I have to find a job.

This means I have to put together a resume that doesn't look like 25 illiterate monkeys that have gorged themselves for thirteen days on nothing but PCP and Boones Farm Strawberry Hill "wine" wrote it.

This means that I have to think up 13 different synonyms for the words "responsible for", 22 for the phrase "conducted research and composed legal memorandum," and 39 different ways to "civilianize" my Air Force duties.

This means that I have to write cover letters. And they have to be interesting and point out things NOT on my resume and have COMPLETE SENTENCES and NO CURSE WORDS and not mention BOOZING or BEER or BEER RELATED PRODUCTS or BEER RELATED INCIDENTS.

This means that I have to convice someone, somewhere, preferably at a federal government agency, that I am not a half-witted, mouthy, opinionated, f-word prone, non-detail-oriented, beer-guzzling, innappropriate-comment-thinking hooligan who is likely to lose my mind if one more person burns popcorn in the microwave near my office.

This means that I have to be organized. And remember to submit things. ON TIME, PEOPLE.

This means that every federal agency to which I apply will try to psych me out with phrases like "very competitive" and "top 10-15%" and "law review/moot court preferred" and "must pass the DAMN BAR YOU BIG FREAKING MORON."

OK. I'm fine. Seriously. Fine. Everything will be dandy. I will get a job, and pay off my loans and my massive credit card debt and I won't have to declare bankruptcy while swirling into the abyss of creditors calling my house and me desperately glomming on to the promises of late-night infomercial salesmen who convince me I can buy and sell homes with none of my own money and make a profit of 18.5 million dollars a year and eventually having to sell my own plasma and possibly a kidney just to buy Ramen and Diet Coke and begging my friends and family for resume paper as a birthday gift in lieu of the usual sterling silver bookmark and crisp $5 bill so that I can send out just 500 more resumes because surely there must be someone that wants to hire me. Right? RIGHT?

Fine. Breathing. Breathing. Finding my happy place. Happy happy place. Zennnnnnnnnnnnn.
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