It seems to happen to me about one a year. I get sick of my job, I psyche myself up by reading the classifieds (“I could be vet, right? Oh, they mean war vet….) I sit down to update the ol’ resume, and all hope is dashed to the ground when I discover how woefully unqualified I am to even be holding the job I currently have.

It’s starts wonderfully, with imaginings of being everything from a massage therapist to diesel mechanic. Nurse’s assistant, insurance salesman, construction worker, sous chef, housekeeper, the ubiquitous “customer service specialist,” canvasser for Greenpeace (scratch that one.), marketing, healthcare, food, WHERE DOES IT END?

And this only includes the jobs I can identify. What the hell is a journeyman?

Oh my, Santaland is hiring. I know I’ve already ripped off the entire errant humor thing, shall I be so callous?

The resume is always the worst. Objective: To obtain an entry-level position in an exciting and professional [fill in the blank] firm, group, or organization with real potential for advancement and future career opportunities. What bullshit. I want $14.50 an hour doing anything that doesn’t involve putting my hand into anything alive, and even that is negotiable. Experience: Medical billing. Shoot me now. I may as well have gotten a shitload of experience weighing elephant testicles. Sure, it’s a skill that’s in demand, but there’s a reason no one has ever heard of it. When I moved to Portland I told myself, using these word exactly, “I would rather dig my eyes out with a spork than go back into medical billing.” Three weeks of unemployment was all it took until I was going crazy at my ocular cavities with a plastic spoon/fork. Education: This is about the time I erase everything I’ve already written (using the backspace, character by character, I'm very dramatic that way) and then begin to write a worthless stream-of-consciousness explication of how I'm feeling, fully intending to put it in my blog, knowing full well no one is going to read it. I need a drink.

Okay, I'm back. Ice quietly tinkling in a tumbler of scotch, I realize I’ve already lost my train of thought. Am I really this pathetic? My mind turns to the filthy crab pot that’s sitting in my backyard waiting for a scrubbing, the dvds that have to be returned by midnight of last night (don’t forget honey!), the library book that is literally months overdue (current fines: $16.85, I get email alerts), the myriad of blogs, humor columns, political notations and jokes that lay, incomplete, on computer disks around my office, my god there’s even an article about Darwin in this month’s National Geographic that I haven’t even finished!! What the fuck is wrong with me!

Check it out, fuck is an accepted word in this fucking word processing program! Fucking, shit ain’t that a doozy! Fuck all fuckin’ shit hell damn fuck ass bitch. Shit, they’re all acceptable!

An hour of my life is gone and all I’ve accomplished is a page of text that, in the miniscule chance it graces someone’s computer screen, I deeply hope they will not tell me.
(slurp)

I love scotch. Actually love is not the right word, the word “love” is so abused by pop culture that I will invent a new word, “lurv.”

I lurv scotch.

The worst part is, for something I love so much, I know next to nothing about it, mainly because I could never afford really good scotch. I can’t afford it because I don’t make enough money. I don’t make enough money because I have a shitty job. I have a shitty job because I never finished college. I NEVER FINISHED COLLEGE BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY DRINKING SCOTCH!!

My friend Neil is an engineer at Ball Aerospace in Colorado. That’s right, he’s a rocket scientist. My friend Jess is a panty designer for Victoria’s Secret and travels the world extensively, currently residing in Hong Kong. Meghan is a staff graphic designer for a huge metropolitan glossy in Boston. Luke is an accountant with a big firm in New Orleans. Ben is a teacher in L.A. Joe is a brain surgeon. That’s right, a brain surgeon.

I need another drink.

I think I may have identified the problem.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

(slurp).