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I’m examining my skill set and narrowing my job search by applying my naturally negative, fatalist perspective that makes me so lovely to be around. There are many things I cannot and should not do, for money or otherwise. I’m taking regular experiences and shortening my list of possible professional paths.

For example, last night I learned from fighting with my boyfriend at a bar that I should not be a life coach, therapist, or housewife. I probably should not be a Girl Scout leader or locksmith in light of the fact that I ran out of the bar in a state that can only be described as that gray area between nearly homicidal and wholly misanthropic and promptly realized that I had left my keys at his house. The best solution I could come up with was to walk sheepishly back into the bar and try to troubleshoot the fight, which was just as ineffective as my attempted departure. Guidance counselor and hostage negotiator were both quickly crossed off of my list, as were park ranger and substitute host for Man Versus Wild, since I extended the shelf-life of the fight by roughly twenty minutes as I tried my best to avoid having to go back outside and into the forty degree Portland night without more than a dress blazer, a pair of jeans, and a lot of seething vitriol to keep me warm.

My general inability to negotiate with strangers or drunk people (strikethrough any and all retail positions, strikethrough police officer and preschool teacher) led to several frat boy types talking loudly and in my face as I called a cab company. Said company refrained from sending a cab to the bar so travel agent or personal assistant are not titles to be printed on my future business cards. All further attempts to disengage from the already asinine, Real World-esque dramafest boyfriend and I were putting on display failed, and in the end I was left with “reality show contestant“ and “my own mother“ on the list of possible future careers.

I should also add that I think that I shouldn’t be professionally employed by AA, Narcs Anonymous, or any rehab facility seeing that my solution – at less than sixty days sober – was to get as fucked up as possible off of well-whiskey with tequila chasers. Which I would have done. If I didn’t only have five dollars in my wallet and to my name.

Also, arm candy? Not me. My charms were outnumbered by my bobby pins. The best conversation that I had all night, other than the one I had in my head with the Jet Blue booking agent, was with a kid so drunk the entire interaction consisted of him telling me that his bike, which he was holding, was red and white. Thank you. I’m unemployed, not blind.

This morning not only proved that my days of having one night stands have gone the way of the dinosaur but that I also shouldn’t pursue a life of crime. The elaborate departure scheme that I’d set up, complete with laying out my outfit and prominently placing my keys on my shirt, was for naught. I type this blog entry on my pink SidekickID wondering when the boy will get up and how much vegan granola I can buy with five dollars. I can’t even quit a relationship successfully. But today that sort of seems like a good thing.



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