The Return

So I come back to my old blog -old faithful -and lo and behold blogspot has been fancied up and now I have to create a google account; blah, blah, blah. It's 1:35am -I can't sleep. I know there are others out there who aren't sleeping. Malcolm's sister, Lisey, is probably lulling her one-year back to sleep, someone else is drinking beer with friends, someone else is eating a sandwich. I tend spend the day in a daze; it seems as if I am always half-asleep; I am always yawning in someone's face; I am often fantasizing about spooning my pillow. But right now, left alone, the rest of the world comatose, I am racked with anxiety. I mean, it's not anxiety exactly. I'm anxious because right now I am marginally employed and resultingly the rent is going to be a week late. I don't want this to happen again in 25 days' time. Am I that unhireable? When I first started serving tables I felt that once I earned enough experience, securing a decent job would be no problem. But little seems to have change. After five years of cleaning up after and serving the masses I am still having a hard time finding a job. I feel like employers think of me as the long shot -someone that seems unlikely to be of any value, and of course they're unwilling to take a chance on me. I need a job. At the same time I am excercising a degree of descrimination -I don't want to take just any shit job. I want to work somewhere clean and reliable. I want to work in a place that treats its' staff with dignity. I recently read a job posting on Craigslist where the poster seemed ill-tempered and aggressive. He said that if waiters lied about their inexperience in the industry he could tell right away so don't bother applying. WTF? I thought that THEY need US? A lot of employers act as if they are bestowing the ultimate act of benevolence on those they hire. It's annoying. I feel like I have to grovel and light and put on affectations that wholly dissemble my nature in order to get a job. Not all waiters/waitresses are ditzy boobs who 'love working with the public' and 'enjoy a challenging work environment.' I would wager that most servers are in the profession to cary them through some greater goal, such as finishing college, saving for a vacation, or subsidizing their true vocations. Most waiters, although excited by the occasional din and rush of being 'slammed,' are not INTO serving. My friend Tiffany is into snowboarding, my friend Megan is into hippy shit, I am into eating bon-bons on the couch and watching nonesense TV; none of us are into waiting on tables (thank you very fucking much). Furthermore, there are different styles of serving that are just as effective as the stereotypical 'ditzy-bombshell-cocktail waitress." Here are some examples:
-the sassy waiter who is witty, efficient, provides excellent service, but who will not take any shit. I would say that I am this kind of server. I judge myself to be a fair-minded person, but as soon as a customer fails rational in the face of a dinner rush, understaffing, or proper manners, I quickly lose my patience. I don't tolerate abuse, and I don't tolerate inconsiderate, rich fucks, who are out of touch with manual labourers that they cannot appreciate how hard many of us work.

-the quiet, meek waiter, who is fast, but doesn't say much or joke around. They get the job done, do they really have to chat with and laugh at your lame jokes?

-the French waiter: very snooty, but more knowledgeable than you. So sit in awe and don't be offended by their frostiness. Debby, who once worked as a waiter in Paris said that the waiters are purposefully aloof; the food is so good it speaks for itself and doesn't need the family-friendly service you find at Red Robins.

I'm spent with this diatribe. Hopefully I'll find a job soon (fucking sourpuss).

JMah and I broke up. We're still and I'm glad. Justin is excellent people.
I want to date; I want find another leaf who trepidations shook my bones. I was like a tuning fork: not always audible, but constantly vibrating. At the same time, my life is messy right now. I'm seeing a counsellor about an eating disorder, JLo hasn't returned MY SECOND DRAFT !!!!(fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck), I'm jobless, almost out of school (finalement) and I don't know what I'm going to do with myself. The house, the husband, the steady income, the Jenny Craig, the assured academic path -these are things of yesteryear. These have been replaced with the following: Moby Dick (not a vibrator but a novel, you assholes), Bikram Yoga, assessing my hunger before I eat, bigger pants, long bike-rides, meeting 'new' people, Fluffy's mewing, Meesoo's awesomeness, gossip, pot to take the edge off a hard day's work, at home waxing kits, scrambling to pay the rent, and a bunch of other stuff that leaves me teetering on a razor's edge between utter exhiliration and depressed resignation. I'd like to meet someone, but I know that right now I need to focus on me, me, me!

News update: I CAN stay friends with ex-boyfriends. I friends with the following ex-mates: Malcolm, Richie, Mark, and Justin. Strong work, Victoria Kowalewski, strong work.

My academic goals for the next 8 months are as follows:
-finish Moby Dick with an -A or better;
-interview more pro-dommes to make my thesis suitable for publication in a peer-reviewed journal;
-publish in a peer-reviewed journal;
-apply to graduate school at U of Ottawa, U of T, St. Mary's, Cambridge, and the Institute of Advanced Human Sexuality in CA;
-get JLo to write me a glowing recommendation letter despite our bickering;
retake (with great embarrasment) the following first-year idiot courses: Physics 100 (and get a grade of C or better), Crim 131 (an A), Crim 135 (an A) and possible SA (an A).
-following from the above accomplishments, reach my goal of a 3.7 cGPA, which will in turn guarantee entrance in a MA program (fucking fuckers).

Over and out.