...may be my head sinking -- no, not sinking. how about crashing, violently-crashing -- on my faux-oak desk. I am a bit of a melodramatic when it comes to writing; I like the poetry of overstating things, but I am in an existential quandary at this moment, a funk, that I am having trouble making heads or tails of.
When I last left the blogworld, things were set. I felt 'on the right track'. Since that time...all one or two-weeks of this odyssey, the wheels have since come flying from their bolts, and I am careening somewhere in the vicinity a black hole of blood-filled death --like I mentioned, hyperbole is something like a defense mechanism. Long story shortened (I know myself better than to ever call one of my stories: short), I was rejected in my bid to A) get a job with the university, and B) get them to pay for my tuition. Instead, I am jobless, and they are sillily
demanding that I pay them a small fortune each semester for the privilege of working my arse off. There was never a guarantee that I would get the position, but I was led to believe that it was a given, and I have been working under that assumption all along. Alas, what can I say, "screws fall out of doors; the world's an imperfect place"...possibly a misquote, but that's the way I remember it.
I was geared up to type more, to wail and gnash my teeth, but I do not have the energy right now. I am in what doctors call a funk, and, though I am questioning the legitimacy of this argument even as I now type, it seems like the best way to exorcise the demons of doubt and potential failure is to broadcast my inner angst on the computer-machine hooked up to the internet-web. We shall see.
When I last left the blogworld, things were set. I felt 'on the right track'. Since that time...all one or two-weeks of this odyssey, the wheels have since come flying from their bolts, and I am careening somewhere in the vicinity a black hole of blood-filled death --like I mentioned, hyperbole is something like a defense mechanism. Long story shortened (I know myself better than to ever call one of my stories: short), I was rejected in my bid to A) get a job with the university, and B) get them to pay for my tuition. Instead, I am jobless, and they are sillily
demanding that I pay them a small fortune each semester for the privilege of working my arse off. There was never a guarantee that I would get the position, but I was led to believe that it was a given, and I have been working under that assumption all along. Alas, what can I say, "screws fall out of doors; the world's an imperfect place"...possibly a misquote, but that's the way I remember it.
I was geared up to type more, to wail and gnash my teeth, but I do not have the energy right now. I am in what doctors call a funk, and, though I am questioning the legitimacy of this argument even as I now type, it seems like the best way to exorcise the demons of doubt and potential failure is to broadcast my inner angst on the computer-machine hooked up to the internet-web. We shall see.
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