I can hardly believe it - here I am in my brand new, old house, with my young, older husband, with my new but tired old job, writing the same old nonsense in a brand new blog. This house looks so different from how it used to be when my parents lived here - it's actually pretty and clean, but it's still small and awkward, and practically reeks of poverty. Only poor people's houses have closets built in as incongruous afterthoughts, and have brassy yellow doorknobs on all the cardboard doors. I know they are cardboard because I accidentally kicked a hole through the upstairs bathroom door while trying to break in to extract my then hysterical husband. He isn't usually hysterical, so that day was especially scary, giving me superhuman powers which allowed me to kick that hole in the door. It's just about patched now, but it's still impressive and big - the size of a small watermelon.
I wish I could kick a hole the size of a watermelon through my so-called "manager's" thick head - a young woman who refers to sneaky underhanded people as "vouchers" (see:vultures), has been told by many that she is "condensed" (see:condescending) - what a bright girl - and writes me and my other co-workers barely intelligible notes about our shortcomings as her employees and reads them out loud to us, and sets up meetings on days off where she asks us questions like "where do you see yourself in five years?" and "how can you apply what we do at this job toward those goals and dreams?". We work at a hair salon, by the way, as receptionists, and unless I plan on entering a lot of old ladies' names into a computerized appointment book - names like Cookie, Bea, Dotty, Bev, Loretta, and Rochelle - I can't for the life of me fathom how this stupid job can ever help me on my quest to rule the world with my sagely wisdom and stunning good looks. I do meet a lot of people - some of them rich, some of them just plain crazy but pretending to be rich - and as soon as I can exploit this boundless source of networking contacts, I will do so with all my might. Maybe not. They're all mostly ancient anyway - that's the trouble with working at a salon that's been around for so long and is so damn reputable. All the damn people who started going there in the last millennium still go, though their husbands are dead, and they shuffle in with their walkers and oxygen tanks, and complain of colon prolapses. I feel sad for them and humor them with kind words like "honey", "darling", and "dear", especially "dear". It's become an annoying habit of mine, to call people "dear", but in certain contexts it works.
Fuck this job anyway. I am counting the days until school starts. I never thought I would ever think that, or say that out loud, or write it out loud in a public forum that no one yet reads... Either way I am consumed with the drive to get on TV or the radio, which is why I successfully applied to broadcasting school. I had to audition and everything, which a hammy person like me just lives for. By hammy I don't mean porky, as in lardy, as in junky-trunked. I mean brilliant and perfect in every way, the kind of person a camera adores and an audience hates for being so flawless. And by flawless I mean with crooked teeth, random chin hairs, and a noticeably Semitic nose which awkwardly sits on a slim, elegant face with big, animated blue eyes with lush eyelashes and pouty lips. Strangely enough, it works, but my appearance has nonetheless given me a plethora of insecurities and neuroses. What better way to overcome them than by parading myself for the world to see, all the while spewing brain-stew of a similar nature.
This is just my warm-up. I've been thinking a lot, thinking too much, mentally articulating my philosophies on life. My ideas are great, but they are for a world not so far gone. But they still exist, and I intend to record them. Maybe one day someone will dig up my writings and pore over them like we do over ancient texts today. Oh how I pity that fool.