Nine to Five

We're gonna get a little serious again this week - but sorry, I need to get some things off my chest:

I've now been employed for over half a month, and BOY am I exhausted.

Pause for laughs.

The sad and true fact is I am genuinely exhausted. Aaaaaaand I might hate my job. Now I know what you're thinking - "Alex, didn't you spend a great deal of time complaining about your lack of job? No matter where you are, you'll find something to be unhappy about. Is it possible that you are just an unwavering grump who will never EVER be happy under any circumstances? "

...

Um. It's possible. I hope that's not actually true, because being permanently unhappy is just a terrible trait to have from an evolutionary standpoint.

But I don't think I'm incredibly off-base in that when I was searching for a job I was also searching for some small kind of fulfillment - I thought having a job would make me feel less adrift - and that's not what I'll be getting with my current job. Which, for the record, I'm very grateful for - should anyone work-related stumble on this I'd absolutely hate for them to be offended. I needed a job, and it's not my workplace's fault that I quickly discovered the type of work doesn't stimulate me in any way whosoever. It works for some people - I'm just not one of those people. There's no creativity anywhere - not a spark, not a drop. And it's not as though I thought there would be... but only after actually working do I realize how the days fly by and I feel like I've done nothing that I care about. And that's sorta the death of me.

I have this horrible nightmare fear of me working there the rest of my life, droning on and on forever. In a previous blog I had an awful precognition:

I just suddenly felt a part of an endless monotonous drift towards a life with no excitement. I had a vision of the future, That's So Raven-style, only instead of seeing myself falling into a cake or dressed up as old lady like Raven usually does, I saw myself not working or worse, working at a job that I cared noting about and fulfilled me in no way, coming home every night and watching TV, nothing gratifying, nothing to look forward to, and nothing to feel good about until the day I die.

And while certainly overdramatic, it's coming true just a little bit. I get up at seven so I can be at work at 8:30, by the time I get home it's six PM - I eat dinner, watch some TV and then I need to get to bed so I can get up early for work the next morning. Where does the time go? My work certainly doesn't come home with me, I don't think about it once I leave, so looking back my week seems like I did nothing. I barely have any time to think, and on the weekends I'm so tired that I don't want to go out or anything; I'm so happy that I get to stay home. The week passes and I think, "What was the point? What did I do? What is any of this for if I'm not even working towards anything?"

Like I said, jobs like this work for some people. I look around at the people I work with; I barely know any of them, a couple I've been introduced to. A lot of people are young-ish, and as they go about their work and mention how long they've had the job, I wonder - did they have some burning, deep passion once? Did they want something more exciting, something with imagination? Was that passion snuffed out over time? Will that happen to me? Or am I just a different breed than they are? I overheard one guy talking in between work banter about something funny that happened to him in college, and I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach - this guy had been in college not too long ago... and now, here he was, no longer speaking like a college student but instead an incredibly dull old person. Working in an office is watching young people become old right before your very eyes.

I feel like whatever it is that makes young people old, whatever it is that snuff's out people's fires - I think it's creeping up on me. I feel like it's wrapping its hands around my neck as I writhe and thrash about, trying to throw it off. I literally had to say to someone the other day, "the copier is out of toner". What's happening to me? Who am I? I fight it. I never let myself think of work as anything other than temporary... because maybe not doing that is how it gets you. My tasks at work are fairly menial, and so I'm very fortunate that I am, for the time being, allowed to listen to my iPod while I do those tasks. As I stand at the scanner, I bob my head a little to the beat. As I walk down the rows of desktops, I imagine bursting out into song, singing along to my music, then pushing all the computers off the desks and jumping atop one and dancing. I dance and dance, defiant - unleashing the joy that I have no place for all week at work and have accordingly been saving up for some time. The others in the office stare, stunned. They don't understand what I'm doing.

It's worth noting, of course, that I barely know these people - they could be incredibly vibrant and passionate outside of the office. I'm certainly different at work than I am at home. But I have a sinking suspicion I feel differently than a lot of them. I think a lot of them think this is a perfect job for them. And, for the record, if I am a different breed, I definitely don't think I'm a better breed. I respect everyone in there - I wish I could work like that and be satisfied. Life would be so much easier - I'd already have figured it all out. I'd be happy.

But does this make me a privileged asshole? Shouldn't I just shut up and be happy with the work? Maybe yes.

But I'm not. And I can't really change how I feel, as much as my life would be easier if I could. And remember my vision of the future? It's now been updated: I flash-forward and hear people talking - "Remember Alex? What ever happened to him? He was kinda funny and smart and creative? Oh, he never amounted to anything. I think he works in some office somewhere." And it makes me sick to my stomach... the idea that I never become anything. That all my potential just fizzles away as others soar.

It's gonna keep me up at night. So I need to do something - because my weeks are going by with nothing of note, nothing to look forward to, nothing to be excited about. I'm thinking maybe I'm gonna write a full-length screenplay; in the past I've written a short screenplay and a television pilot, but maybe I should take on a big project... because I need something to do in my life that makes me feel at all good or intelligent or fun or creative or smart or witty or special or like I have something to contribute. Without that something, I feel like my soul is shriveling up like a raisin. And not even a chocolate-covered raisin - just a wrinkly, chewy little raisin.

Something besides this blog, of course.

The Lunch Break From Hell

So guess what everybody? I'm employed.

 Did you hear me? I'm EMPLOYED. All of my insane malaise has come to an end!

Wait, this is me - no it hasn't. But it's certainly lessening, or at least changing. So what is my job? Well, I'm not really going to talk about it specifically, because upon being hired I signed roughly one million agreements that I would not be blogging, tweeting, or otherwise talking about the company. And I feel that getting fired after two days is sort of tacky, so I'm going to follow the rule. All you need to know is that it's an office job, I'm doing a lot of typing and filing, work certainly beneath someone of such incredible creative genius as I.

I'm joking of course, but I actually did have a moment, immediately after being hired, where I looked around and thought something to the effect of, "What am I doing here? I'm a creative, funny, person who should be doing something grand... not wasting my uniquely original voice typing away in some office", and then I felt like Hannah Horvath and promptly kicked myself for being such an asshole.* So, maybe I'm not being fulfilled creatively at this point, but was I really being creatively fulfilled toiling away into madness alone in my apartment? Methinks not. And also - it's just a job for now. I know it's not my career, it's not a permanent-life-forever decision... despite every choice I've ever made feeling permanent and life-altering, they usually aren't. I mean, if in ten years I'm still working in the office AND I don't have any new Twitter followers, then we can all collectively agree I turned out to be a failure. So, until then... I'm just a good little worker bee, and I'm genuinely grateful and relieved to be employed.

*I will say that the longer I'm out of college, the more "Girls" goes from being hilarious to way-too-real and very chilling.

But it's still just Alex dressed up as a worker bee, which means I'm still going to have ridiculous, embarrassing things happen, because that's my life story. The things range from small to colossal. I was hired on the spot on Thursday, and sat around for a good hour or so because no one had anything for me to do. A guy who I'll name "Tom" was in charge of babysitting me. Essentially, I sat next to him while he worked at his station. Finally, after a solid forty-five minutes of doing nothing, he asked me to put a stack of papers somewhere. He was youngish (under 30?) so, trying to bond with my brand-new co-worker and eager to do any sort of task, I said, "You got it, Macgruber." He turned to me, and dead serious, said, "That's not even close to my name." Um. Um. He'd never even heard of Macgruber. He thought I was just guessing at his name... and that I decided to take a shot in the dark and go with Macgruber? Anyway, I sputtered, "oh, no - it's an SNL sketch". "Saturday Night Live?" he asked, as if SNL could stand for anything else. I said yes, and he said, "Oh, I don't do that". Uh oh. If the people in the office don't know or enjoy pop culture, how are we ever going to get along? I suddenly remembered that I do not belong in an office by any stretch of the imagination.

So Friday, my first full day of work, was when the incident happened. Something very embarrassing that only happened two days ago, which means it's VERY BIG OF ME THAT I'M ALREADY FINDING THE HUMOR IN IT, DON'T YOU AGREE?!

Where was I? So my first day was plodding along, the hours ticking away, and I was starting to get really hungry. But, being the pushover people-pleaser that I am, I didn't want to ask for my lunch break on the first day because somehow that felt rude to me? Welcome to my brain. Anyway, it was nearly two, and after finishing a spreadsheet, I handed it to my supervisor and said, "Would it be okay if I took lunch now?" She said sure, and I went down the elevator to the ground floor of the building where I sat in the commissary with a banana, yogurt, and juice box that I had pulled from the office kitchen (I didn't steal them, they're for the employees) and checked the last several hours of news and updates from Twitter. This was odd for me, since usually I check Twitter all day long - but now I had hours worth of backlog, and trying to get through it all and open and read all the articles I wanted to in a half hour was more difficult than I'd imagined. As my break was ending, I was still reading stuff on my phone. I got in the elevator, hit floor 35, waited until the elevator stopped, and exited all without looking up from my phone. When I peeled my eyes from the screen, I realized I was actually at floor 33. Whoops. I turned right back around and hit the button for the elevator and waited. And waited. This is silly, I thought, waiting around to go up two floors, how lazy am I? I can use the stairs. So I wandered around until I found door a stairwell, which I entered. I walked up two flights to floor 35 and tried the door. It was locked. Well, that's just annoying, I thought, and went back down to 33 and tried the door. It wouldn't open.

It wouldn't open. Now my nerves started to kick in... trying not to freak out, I went down another floor and tried the door. No dice. I was trying like hell to keep full-on panic at bay... and I was semi-succeeding. What am I going to do? Oh my god, I'm going to have to call my office on my FIRST DAY of work and tell them that I'm LOCKED IN THE STAIRWELL? I felt full-body embarrassment seize me at just the thought. No, no, no - that should be my last resort ONLY. Not wanting to go there, I realized my other, equally unpleasant option: I was going to have to walk down all the stairs. Maybe the doors on the upper floors with offices wouldn't open, but there's no way the ground floor would be locked. So, resigning myself, I began making my way down the stairs. LOTS of stairs. Keep in mind that I was dressed in a button-up shirt with a sweater over it AND wearing my coat, which I had brought with me on break. Down and down and down the stairs I went, getting sweaty and gross fast.* Finally I got to the bottom... and saw, "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY, ALARM WILL SOUND".

*This is a reference probably nobody will get, but I felt like I was in a real-life version of that part in Final Fantasy VII where you go up all those flights of stairs in the Shin-Ra building. #nerdalert

Now was the time. The time for me to begin FULL-ON PANICKING. My heart was racing, and not because I had just been forced to actually exercise. No no no no no.... serious panic set in, not just because of the ridiculous embarrassment of the situation and the thought of having to call the office to send someone to get me out, but actually more so because of the sudden intense wave of claustrophobia that hit me like a ton of bricks.* I felt trapped, stuck in this endless, gray, concrete stairwell with NO WAY OUT. No way out, no way out... "WHY IS THIS HERE?" I screamed inside my head, "WHAT'S THE POINT OF HAVING STAIRS YOU CAN ONLY ENTER BUT NEVER LEAVE? IT MAKES NO SENSE!" Shirking logical thinking in lieu of full hysteria, I began running up the stairs, pounding on the doors at every floor. No answer, no answer... AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Finally, at the 16th floor, I heard movement. I waited, hoping against hope that this was my salvation. The door slowly opened, and a completely nonplussed forty-something man was looking at me. I'm sure I looked like a sweaty, lunatic child; I was suddenly very acutely aware of the fact that I was in no way, shape, or form a grown-up of any kind. I walked through, and realized the door had opened DIRECTLY INTO AN OFFICE. Not a hallway - an office. Others were at their cubicles working. "Thank you so much", I whispered quieter than I think I've ever spoken, both because people were working and but also because my embarrassment was genuinely affecting my body, and I found that my vocal chords could just barely produce actual speech. "I got locked in the stairwell." "Well that's not good." He said bemusedly.

*I'm not overly claustrophobic - I'm fine in elevators, but if the elevator got stuck, then I'd probably start to get nervous. 

And with that, I briskly walked through the office to the exit, and took the elevator back up to the proper floor, where I entered my actual place of work. Maybe no one noticed, but as is often the case, I felt like shame was radiating so strongly from me that everyone noticed... not to mention the fact that I was a SWEATY MESS, both due to the panic and the running up and down stairs; only after I had sat at my station for a little bit, calmed down and resumed working, did I notice my thighs were burning. Exercise, man.

You guys, I'm pretty sure I'm fifteen. I'm fifteen, right?

Update: I'm Still Friends With Sean Maher

So first thing's first - BIG NEWS y'all - remember how last week I wrote about my relationship with my close, personal friend, actor Sean Maher. Well, imagine my extreme delight when, after tweeting the blog out*, my iPhone sounded with the e-mail tone. My inbox had an e-mail from Twitter.

Sean Maher (@Sean_M_Maher) mentioned you on Twitter!**

Holy snap, crackle and pop - Sean saw my post! Sean read my blog. 

LOOKIT LOOKIT!

I was quite excited, mostly because it reaffirmed the deep bonds of our friendship. But in all sincerity, it was super cool knowing that Sean had as much hanging out as I did. Additionally, a bonus side-effect that I didn't anticipate was that suddenly the Blogspot site started getting a ton hits - Sean has 45,718 followers and counting. This is cool, because as someone with aspirations of being a writer of some kind (TV, please) it can only be a good thing to have people reading your work! However, as discussed, my brain tends to turn even the best, happiest things into occasions for anxiety, because I am the worst. This would be no exception.

*The fact that I just said the phrase "tweeting the blog out" makes me die a little inside.
**If you can somehow get this e-mailed to you, I recommend it - it's SUPER fun.

This blog runs both on Blogspot and Tumblr because I was too anxious to choose just one, as is my wont. To summarize the distinction for those who don't understand technology (hi, Mom!), Blogspot is more of a standard blog-writing site while Tumblr is a site that posts all kinds of stuff, but has the nice added feature of allowing people to follow your updates with a simple click. So unlike the blog, you don't have to visit it hoping for an update. My updates will just appear on your Tumblr if you choose to follow me.

Suddenly, because I am my own worst enemy, I turned this awesome thing into a bad thing - "oh, no - why didn't I tweet the TUMBLR link instead! Now anyone who might want to follow me will end up at the Blogspot! MY CHANCE AT INTERNET BLOGGER SUCCESS IS DEAD, I TELL YOU! And it's all my own doing! WOE IS ME, I SAY!" I started to get antsy.

Trying to make myself feel better, I started saying out loud to my roommate Caitlin, "It's not so bad, right? If someone comes to the blog, there's a link to the Tumblr, if they really want to they can find me, right?" Caitlin: "I mean, it's a lot nicer to have people following you on Tumblr." "I KNOW, Caitlin, you're supposed to be making me feel better!" "Well... I mean you're right, it was a bad decision."

After placing Caitlin on friend probation - "you are on the THINNEST of ice" - I decided to tweet the link to my Tumblr as well. And wouldn't you know it - because we have the kind of friendship where one person just knows what the other needs, y'know? - Sean re-tweeted my Tumblr link. My anxiety was calmed, and I felt secure knowing that the problem I had created completely in my own head had been solved. So, welcome new followers! I promise my next blog will be a fun one, it's about me doing something really dumb while drinking. You're thinking, "I'm sure I've heard it all", but I promise, this one is special! It's exceptionally weird and is accompanied by photo evidence! I wanted to bring out the big guns for my new internet readers.

One last thing: it should be noted as well that in my initial blog, I mentioned how people, upon hearing about me meeting Sean, asked if he could get me into the business. I found this odd, because while hanging out with him that thought didn't even cross my mind. My mother had been one of them, and when I told her during a phone call that Sean had seen my blog, her immediate first response was, "Can he get you a job?!" Listen, we're both handling my unemployment in different ways. It's the five stages of unemployment grief. She's clearly at bargaining. I'm slightly more advanced, since I'm at depression.

Besides, a year from now when my lease is up and I move to L.A. to break into TV, Sean and I are going to have lunch, and I don't want it to be weird or awkward because I once tried to use his global fame to my advantage or something. I've learned that you need to keep business and friendship separate. It's why you don't loan your friends large sums of money - that stuff can really tear a relationship apart. And when you've gone through as much as Sean and I - hanging out once and then having a couple Twitter exchanges - you don't want to lose a friendship that meaningful over something so trivial.

You guys, I think I'm really growing as a person. Take notes everyone, you're witnessing some super meaningful self-discovery right before your very eyes. It's a beautiful thing.

Hard-Knock Life

Well, I'm not having a great day. The unfortunate thing about my agreement with myself that I write weekly is that sometimes - as Sarah Michelle Gellar-as-Christina Aguilera once said - I ain't feelin' it. But I fear that if I stop writing once a week, my readers will all leave me (both on the internet and in life, obviously). So while I'm not in my funnest of moods, it's been a week, the clock is up, and I'm due another post. So apologies in advance for the (relative) downer this week. And if this is your first time reading my blog, uh skip this week and read older ones first. I mean it. Cause I'm usually way more funny - and even occasionally charming.

So while it was kitschy fun at first, this unemployment thing is really wearing thin. And while I love things that are thin*, I'm starting to devolve into an insane cat lady. Remember the cats I wrote about last week? The ones I was getting used to? They are now my minions. Oh yes, Buster and Lucille are now my best and only friends, considering their mom (a.k.a. my roommate) actually has a job and is gone most of the time. At first it was they, the cats, who were excited to be friends with me. Buster would climb into my lap and nuzzle up, falling asleep on me. Lucille would leap onto my bed while I was laying down and start sucking on my ear.**

*Especially when the thin thing is me - former fat child, remember.
**What a little pervert.

Thinking they were obsessed with me - cause who wouldn't be - I began to become attached to them because one of my favorite qualities in others is loving me. "These cats just love me", I told myself, knowing that since somebody thought I was cool I was therefore cool, because that's how coolness works, right? RIGHT? So getting comfortable with them, I began to enjoy picking up Buster and squeezing him while saying, "little fatty! You little fat man!" Or scooping up Lucille and puppeteering her little arms around and making her dance. I laughed as I jabbed them (lightly!) in the stomach with the remote control and watched as they flailed confusedly.

Long story short the cats aren't so into me anymore. I know, I'm shocked too.* Apparently they don't love being physically assaulted with regularity. This would not be as disconcerting as it is if I had a job or, say, anyone else to love me talk to. I had two job interviews last week, both for ACT/SAT tutoring positions. See, despite my lack of maturity, I do very well on standardized tests. One interview was over the phone, and one over Skype. The Skype interview asked for business attire. The fun thing about doing an interview over Skype is that you can do your whole interview with no pants on! Dress shirt, suit jacket, no pants, ahthankyou. 

*WHY DOES EVERYONE ALWAYS LEAVE ME? Oh wait, I'm not Dawn.

A friend wondered how that worked, so I almost texted her a picture of me in the dress top-half, no-pants bottom-half, but then it suddenly felt too close to sexting and I got very uncomfortable. The point is, going pantsless in a situation like that is really fun, not because you're not wearing pants, but rather because the other party doesn't know you're not wearing pants. It's these little moments of secretly pulling one over on someone else that make life special, don't you agree? Anyway, if you can have a conversation with someone wherein you can be pantsless and they won't know a thing about it, I highly recommend it. It is so choice.

Unfortunately, I was rejected from the first job, and woke up this morning to an e-mail telling me I was rejected from the second. A lovely gut-punch to start the morning. I had hoped (against my better judgment) that maybe this would work out and I could breathe easy for a little bit. Oh well. I pulled out my laptop and started pulling up more Craig's List job postings, pouring through them - office listings, marketing jobs, temp work - until I felt completely full of dread, sick to my stomach, and had to stop. I just suddenly felt a part of an endless monotonous drift towards a life with no excitement. I had a vision of the future, That's So Raven-style, only instead of seeing myself falling into a cake or dressed up as old lady like Raven usually does, I saw myself not working or worse, working at a job that I cared noting about and fulfilled me in no way, coming home every night and watching TV, nothing gratifying, nothing to look forward to, and nothing to feel good about until the day I die.

Um.

Um.

Um.

...comedy? COMEDY?

So we come back to the beginning of this post. Sorry to be a bummer, but I still just haven't quite shaken this blue feeling. I could really use a Pumpkin pie. Like, an entire pie - I've eaten an entire pumpkin pie in a day before, and I'm not afraid to do it again, okay? Don't push me. But, y'know, I guess not every day can be bells and whistles and laugher and comedy. I'll be fine later, I'm sure. It's not like I'm looking for a career right now; I'd just like to pay my rent. And besides, all this REALLY DEEP PAIN and pathos are really giving me material. Oh yeah, these are really the hard knocks.

You guys, I think when something actually bad happens I'm probably not going to hold up that well. Just a hunch.

It's My Birthday and I'll Dance Even if I Really Don't Want To

This is a tale that makes me feel queasy inside, but I feel that humiliation breeds character comedy, and if my humiliation helps me come up with a great post for this week, then it’s all worth it.

Because something this dumb would only happen to me. See, I’m special! A special martyr!

So it was my birthday a week or so ago. AND NO I DIDN’T GET ANYTHING FROM YOU AND I’M CERTAINLY NOT MAD ABOUT IT OR ANYTHING. A CARD WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE BUT WHATEVER.* I took two weeks before I could write about what happened this year on my birthday because just thinking about it caused me full-body-turning-red-sweaty level embarrassment stress memory for days afterward. Luckily the wound has healed a bit so I can deliver it to you, where you can read in safety with the cozy knowledge that this did not happen to you, but rather to me.

*I also enjoy chocolate.

“Good lord”, you’re thinking, “what could have happened to him that was so horrific?” Well, long story short I killed a homeless guy.

No, I’m just kidding. He’s fine. It wasn’t that bad.* BUT IT WAS PRETTY CLOSE. Quickly I’m going to give you some backstory you will need to set-up this tale of woe and body-rolls: I was in a commercial once. It’s not a big deal, but someone I know got me a gig dancing in a casino commercial. It was kind of funny and a nice way to make some quick cash and a story for a later blog. But it was jokey, club-y dancing. The kind of dancing Andre can do quite well. Six months later, right before my birthday, this same someone contacted me with an opportunity to dance as extra in a Bollywood film shooting locally. Yes, I’m aware this is completely ludicrous.

*Keepin’ it in perspective.

I’m assuming because I had casually danced in that commercial they figured I could dance again, and while I wasn’t quite into it, it paid ONE MILLION DOLLARS. I’m sorry, I mean ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS. A thousand dollars! For a day’s work! As I am currently unemployed (with rent looming), this was too good of an offer for me to turn down simply because it caused me a little discomfort. And besides, everything causes me discomfort. We’ve been over this. 

But I'm not stupid. As a method of uncertainty/anxiety reduction, I e-mailed this someone. "Hey, so I really appreciate you letting me know about this opportunity, but I just want to make sure this isn't like real professional dancing or anything. I am not a dancer, I can't even touch my toes, so I certainly can't do a pirouette or anything. If it's just sort of fun dancing I can do that." She e-mailed back saying I could do it, so I figured it would be okay even though I still felt weird about it.*

*If you in the audience are screaming "TRUST YOUR GUT!", congratulations, you are much better at being me than I am. I will happily hand over my life to you - not that you'd want it, good god.

A couple days later - on my birthday - she e-mailed me saying I needed to go to a rehearsal that day in order to be eligible. This rehearsal was in the city, and I was in my suburbs to have dinner with my family. I was starting to get stressed now, firstly because now I had to drive into the city and back, but predominately because birthdays are supposed to feel good and I was now feeling anxious and sad that my birthday wasn't going well. Stress about stress - it's my M.O.

Telling myself over and over I was going to make one thousand dollars, thus making the whole thing worth it, I drove downtown. When I arrived at the address, I noticed it was a dance studio. This was a bad sign. My stomach sank. But I had come all the way downtown, so I followed the sound of Bollywood music upstairs. Inside the studio, people were dressed in leggings and other dance-y clothes and doing stretches, warming up. Oh no oh no oh no I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT. Would you like to know what I was wearing? Jeans and a sweatshirt. "All right, let's get started!" The choreographer shouted. I want to die I want to die I want to die. I went up to the woman collecting paperwork. She seemed not much older than me and therefore I decided she was the closest thing I had to a friend. "Excuse me..." I mumbled, "this isn't for, like, professional dancers is it? Because I can do, like, fun dancing but I can't even touch my toes, and I certainly can't do a pirouette" I laughed nervously, repeating the e-mail near verbatim. "Yeah, the call was for pro-dancers." She said. I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I WANT TO DIE. "Are you ready to go? We're starting!" Shouted the choreographer. I kept rambling to the woman -"because I did not want to waste anyone's time or anything so I specifically asked if this was, like, real dancing." "You asked who?" She said, looking confused. "My agent" I responded immediately. I have no agent, but I chose to say that because it probably sounded better than "some lady". "Well", the woman began, looking at me sympathetically, "How about you just give it a try? If you don't feel comfortable you can stop." "...ok." I said, always the fucking people-pleaser, trying to be nice and polite, don't offend anyone... THAT'S HOW I GOT INTO THIS MESS - I didn't want to seem unappreciative of the opportunity so I accepted it even though I was NOT comfortable.

"OKAY, here we go, it's ONE TWO THREE AND FOUR, FIVE SIX SEVEN AND EIGHT." The choreographer started. They really talk like that. They also really go, "and then it's BUM BUM BUM BUM BUM" for the counts too, just like on So You Think You Can Dance! Also just like So You Think You Can Dance, we were dancing in front of a giant mirror, which was a nice bit of salt in my wound because I was forced to watch myself as I attempted to flail with rhythm. Some of the moves I was okay with - some sliding, some body-rolling, some step-touching - but then there were really fast combinations that I just could not do. At one point we had to spin on one foot in a circle and land without losing our balance (which I, shockingly, could not do), which I BELIEVE IS CALLED A PIROUETTE. Oh, and also, I was sweating like a crazy person because I'd been dancing for, I don't know, FORTY MINUTES in jeans and a big baggy sweatshirt. I knew that I looked as stupid as I felt. I suppose that it's entirely possible - in fact, probably highly likely - that nobody was paying any attention to me. I know that I'm anxiety-ridden and insecure and I tend to assume everyone is laughing at me. But I truly felt like a giant swollen sore thumb that EVERYONE was watching and wondering "What is he doing here? He's terrible!" I felt so deeply humiliated. At one point I'm pretty sure that the choreographer actually was staring at me in shock.

Forty minutes feels like a long-time when you're filled to the brim with embarrassment. I kept waiting and waiting for the rehearsal to stop, even just for a minute or two. Finally we had a five-minute water break, which for me was an opportunity for prison break. I ran up to my paperwork-lady. I apologized for wasting her time but told her I was not capable of doing the dance, and she apologized for the mix-up. I told her it certainly wasn't her fault, I just felt really bad and I was really sorry and I had a gut feeling and I should have trusted myself and I JUST KEPT TALKING. I KEPT TALKING AND SWEATING AND TALKING. What had been a understanding expression on her face had by now shifted to an incredibly wary one. "My leg is shaking" I said, looking down at my trembling leg, "that happens sometimes when I get really nervous". I WAS IN CRAZYPERSON MODE, the stress and embarrassment had pushed me into full-on raving neurotic territory. Wanting this woman to not think I was insane, I sputtered, "When I get really nervous I just keep talking!"*. "Ok!" She said with a tone that said this conversation was over five minutes ago, I was very polite about it, please go now. And so I did. I got out of there as fast as I possibly could.

*I have this instinct that if I point out what's wrong with me before other people do than it isn't as embarrassing. It's like dumping a date before they dump you, sort of. The thought-process is: I see what's happening, so I'm not crazy!

I'm pretty sure the thought process is WRONG because in retrospect I think it makes me look CRAZIER to be pointing out my own insanity.

I drove all the way back to the suburbs, trying to shake the embarrassment that continued to wash over me in waves. It would die down a little, then I'd remember the tiniest moment, like the shock in the choreographer's face and BAM it came flooding back. I tried to push the feelings deep down. I tried to think forward, picturing the delicious dinner I'd have that night for my birthday, since, oh yeah, it was my freaking birthday.

When all else fails in situations like these, I try chanting my mantra - "this will be great for my memoirs, this will be great for my memoirs, this will be great for my memoirs..."

Cats and Clothes

I finally moved out of the suburbs, which, while hopefully a good thing, requires actually moving out of the suburbs. Moving is like the movie John Carter, in that they're both the worst thing ever. As such, I packed almost nothing - nothing decorative, no posters, no keepsakes, nothing sentimental, which is unlike me - it was essentially just a mattress, lots of clothes, and a box of DVD's. The move went very smoothly, but afterwards my entire bedroom was filled with boxes. This was annoying for several reasons:

1) I had to unpack everything.
2) I needed to unpack everything.
3) I don't know the spell from Fantasia that makes inanimate objects sort themselves.
4) I don't know the spell from Harry Potter that makes your room clean itself.
5) I didn't want to unpack everything.

As it turns out, for someone who doesn't care about clothes at all, I have a lot of clothes. I deliberately dress in a way that doesn't say anything about me, all non-descript and muted; my goal with the way I dress is not be noticed by anyone ever. But somewhere along the line I apparently accumulated a lot of muted clothes. I started emptying out all the bags, tossing clothes into sorted piles as best as I could. "Shorts, pants, ugly shirts, ok shirts, those shirts that you really like..." I started by hanging things first. Looking at all my winter things hanging in the closet, I was a little depressed by the color scheme; black, grey, forest green, navy blue, maroon. I dress like I'm the human version of the Zoloft blob.* I started throwing shirts onto the bed, hitting one of the cats, who scurried out from under them.**

*If, y'know, the Zoloft blob became human for a day after making a magical wish to a genie or on a star, or a deal with the devil or Ursula, or found a Zoltar machine. I'm still working on the pitch, okay?  But Zoloft and I think it's going to be both a box office hit and a great victory for product placement.

**One of the first things I noticed about these cats is that they love to jump up onto my bed with me. For a split second, I thought, "Oh no, what if someone is in bed with me and they're allergic to cats?", but then I laughed out loud, remembering, "nobody's going to be in bed with me!" and then cackled wildly before descending into silence.

Oh, did I mention I have cats now? My roommate has two cats, Buster and Lucille, so I guess now I have two cats, though I think of myself as a step-parent if anything. As a dog person, this has been odd. I don't really have a problem with cats, but cats hate me. I don't know if I smell like dog or what, but they greatly dislike me. I once went to my friend Andrew's house, and upon entering saw his cat, smiled real big and said "hiiiii!" in a high singsongy voice. The cat responded by hissing loudly and viciously. Andrew stood dumbfounded. "In eight years he's never done that to anyone", he said. Well, that was before he got a little of the old Alex charm! Am I right, people?

I am still unemployed, but I attended a job fair last weekend and hopefully some of that Alex charm worked on some potential employers.

Alex, smiling brightly: Hi, my name is Alex, I just graduated-
Employer: *HISS*
Alex: Oh, um - yes well, anyway, I majored in Communications-
Employer licks his hand while staring bitchily at Alex.
Alex: So, I have a copy of my resume...
Alex begins to hand paper, but employer scratches his hand, drawing blood.
Alex: Ow! Ow, ow, okay, I'll leave now, Jesus Christ...

Hopefully more of them were dogs than cats. But these cats have been pretty cool with me, perhaps because they've figured out I'm living here and therefore should not be messed with. See, I have no problem bopping them on the head (in the style of Little Bunny Foo Foo) if they give me trouble. I sat petting Buster on the couch for maybe ten whole minutes when he suddenly bit me. Without a second's hesitation I grabbed the spray water bottle and immediately sprayed him in the face. He stared at me, shocked. "I'm not having that for a second, got it?"

I apparently think I can teach cats to be nice more often than I realize. Last weekend, I was petting my friend Michelle's cat for a while, getting along fine, when she bit me. I grabbed a small pillow and bopped her on the head (sorry, Michelle). She hissed at me, and I bopped her again.* "Why?!" my friend Cary asked. "Because I was letting her know if she thought I was scared of her, she had another thing coming. You wanna hiss at me? Guess what, I'm not scared of you for a second!" "She's a cat! She doesn't understand that!" "All I'm saying is, if she wants to challenge me she should know that she's gonna lose. It's not smart to start a fight with a bigger animal! She should know that!"

*It's worth noting that unlike my new cat roommates, this cat is a total bitch. Like, my cats are mostly nice, okay - this cat has always been a total asshole.

Maybe how that's I should've dealt with that employer. Next time, I'll go in with a plan.

Alex, smiling brightly: Hi, my name is Alex, I just graduated-
Employer: *HISS*
Alex pulls spray bottle and sprays several times.
Employer HISSES loudly.
Alex: BAD! Okay, bad! Now here's my resume...
Alex begins to hand paper, but employer bites Alex's hand.
Alex: NO! Take the resume-
Alex pulls out a pillow and WOMPS employer on the head.
Employer scurries away.
Alex: YEAH, I HOPE YOU LEARNED YOUR LESSON! I WON'T HAVE THAT BEHAVIOR FOR A SECOND! 

I may not get a job, but at least they learned they can't mess with me.

What's that? I still have to pay rent? Oh.

Insult to Injury

I looked out my bathroom window and was stunned by how sunny and inviting it looked outside - stunned because I was shocked that all the snow had melted so fast. Only then I remembered my dream from the night before... there had been snow everywhere; the world was coated with it. It was a odd-feeling way to remember the dream, to be smacked into the memory of it by the reality of how false it had been.*

I've always found dream dictionaries to be fascinating - every time I look up the images in my dreams, I see the explanation and think, "oh my god, yes, exactly!". I climbed into my bed and opened my computer, quickly pulling up snow in the dream dictionary. This was the definition verbatim:

"To see snow in your dream signifies your inhibitions, unexpressed emotions and feelings of frigidity."

.
.
.
.
....what a dick. Um, screw you, dream dictionary. Like, I don't need you to tell me I'm frigid, okay, I know that perfectly well. Just... just rude, is what it is. Rude and unnecessary. "More like you're frigid!" I yelled unconvincingly at the computer and slammed it shut. "Ass."

Spurned by the douche move on the part of an impolite dream dictionary, I strongly needed to save face. How about distracting myself with a read? I looked around and saw a Harry Potter book laying on my floor. It'd do. Surely I couldn't go wrong with the Potter! I grabbed the book off the floor and opened to a random page.

"Hermione's schedule was so full that Harry could only talk to her properly in the evenings, when Ron was, in any case, so tightly wrapped around Lavender that he did not notice what Harry was doing. Conversely, the muggle Alex had not had human contact with anyone he wasn't related to in roughly three days."

I slammed the book shut. What? That wasn't how I remembered it. Oh, and SHUT UP STUPID HARRY POTTER. I hurled the book across my bedroom and it fell behind the large bookshelf that rests against the wall. "Hah!" I shouted in the book's general direction. "Who's not having human contact now?" Stupid book. What a loser it was.

I turned on the television - my go-to escape from life. I treat TV with care, and in return it has always done the same for me. It was an odd time of day and the local news was on. The anchor began to speak.

"No new updates in the dramatic standoff that has kept us riveted for the last several hours.  Alex has still not left his room. We will update you on the situation as it progresses."

No no no no no. Not having it. I got up and ran out of my room - HAPPY NOW, NEWS ANCHOR? - downstairs into the kitchen. I grabbed my iPod and headphones, stuffed the buds into my ears and clicked shuffle. Loser, by Beck. NEXT. You've Got Growin' Up to Do by Joshua Radin. UGH, NEXT. Odds of Being Alone by Amy Stroup and Trent Dabbs**.

"Are you KIDDING ME?" I screamed at the machine as I clicked for the next song. Dickhead by Kate Nash. "VERY FUNNY! I've had just about enough..." I sputtered through my gritted teeth as I clicked one more time. I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked, by Ida Maria. "iPod!" I gasped as I blushed and tore the earphones out. "Cheeky little thing..."

Having had quite enough of technology for the time being, I decided to go for a run, clear my head and give myself a free endorphin boost. Pull your jaws off the ground, my "runs" last about 15 minutes. And there may be walking in between the running. I can't say for sure. So I took off down the street, turning out of my neighborhood and running along the highway. I don't normally like to do this, as I hate people seeing me run - it looks as dumb as you'd imagine - but y'know, desperate times. The cars whizzed by and... I was stunned as I realized the drivers were holding signs out of their windows. I stopped running to read the signs, each with only one single word written on it.

.....GET....
.....A......
......JOB.....

"HOW ABOUT YOU GET A JOB, HUH?!" I screamed in a full rage down the road at the cars that had already passed me. "AT LEAST I'M RUNNING! YOU'RE FAT!" The cars were out of sight. "PROBABLY!" Jesus christ. I've had it.

In my room I crawl under my blanket.



...You guys, I think my subconscious might be an asshole.



*Does that make any sense whatsoever?
**This is a great song, by the way, go have a listen. This isn't a paid endorsement.***

***Paid endorsement.

I'm Unemployed: An Explanation

I’m unemployed. Accordingly, money has become a source of anxiety for me. Spending any of it anywhere gives me serious Jewish guilt*, so taking a dog or house-sitting gig from a wealthy family in the hills is something I don’t turn down.

*Though in money's defense, so does everything else - this is how Jewish guilt works, you see.

I explain this to set the scene for you – me, alone, in a ridiculously spacious manse, which itself is alone on five acres of land with no neighbors in sight. It’s pretty lonely, and frankly, a little creepy. I keep envisioning a horrific home invasion in the middle of nowhere - masked men smashing in through the windows and holding me and the dogs at gunpoint - where my screams fall on no ears. (Other than, of course, the ears of my tormentors, who do not call 911.) So to keep myself occupied, I turn on the impressively large television and begin scouring OnDemand for something to fill my time between letting the dogs in and out of the house.

To make a long story short (too late!), as I sat alone, eating mint brownies and actually welling up with emotion at an episode of MTV’s True Life**, I thought to myself, “I think I might have hit a low.”

**HE NEEDED THAT BONE MARROW TRANSPLANT. WHAT AM I, MADE OF STONE?

I needed to get that creative part of my brain working. I wanted to produce something - a something that came entirely from my brain - on a semi-regular basis. It could only be healthy, I figured.

“Booooo”, says you. “A recent college graduate starting a blog?”

“….yes.” Says I.

“Booooo! How cliché and obvious!” Says you.

“…Yuh-huh.” Says I.

Full disclosure: this wasn’t entirely my idea - the seed had been planted by my friend Peter a mere week ago. He demanded to know why I wasn’t writing about television for a magazine or newspaper. Putting aside the fact that his suggestion was made under his false pretense that my dream career is being a TV critic, I went ahead and said to him, “well, um, because they’re not just hiring random people to do that, that I know of.” “Why don’t you just start a blog! You know so much about TV, I don’t know anyone who knows as much about TV as you do! You should write reviews! Then someone will see it and then you’ll get a job!” I told him I felt this was silly, as nobody would be reading it, and therefore, what was the point? He scoffed at this line of thinking. He scoffs at most lines of thinking.

So while this won’t be a TV blog, I just wanted to give myself motivation to do something regularly. I’m going to try to write a couple times a month, for now. It may be about anything – I have no concrete plans – a funny story, something that happened to me that day, my random dabblings in the arts (acting, writing, trapeze)***, or perhaps my recent trip to Israel****. It may be about what TV I’m watching, my oh-so-witty observations about life (button-fly pants: stupid), or my affinity for making awesome portmanteaus (like this gem - exploring alone = lonesplorin'; free of charge, you're welcome).  It may even be about the big questions that seem particularly recurrent for me, such as, “how do I figure out what I want to do with my life?” or, “why can't I make decisions like an adult the way everyone else does?” or, “why am I not watching this in HD?”

“Musing on being directionless after college?” Says you. “How original!”

“…are you being sarcastic?” Says I.

“Uh…. yeah. Sorry, I thought that was clear, my bad.” Says you.

So hello internet, it is I! You may be endless, but I have no carved out one tiny little corner where I and I alone am in control! The power! You guys, it’s so true - power totally corrupts. Since I first started typing this I’ve already driven left out of a right-turn only exit, walked my dog without a leash, and jaywalked twice. Who knows what I’ll do next?

“You are the worst. You think what you have to say is so important that it just NEEDS to be read, huh?” Says you.

“No, I’m not like everyone else! I swear!” Says I.

“Really, how so?” Says you.

“I don’t think I’m at all important! In fact, I think I’m super lame! Honestly!” Says I.

“Oh.” Says you. “Well then this is just kind of sad, actually.”

“Wait, come back! Please come back!” Says I.

One last thing - the title of this post is "I'm Unemployed: An Explanation". You may have thought this was going to be an explanation as to why I'm unemployed. But no no no - unemployment is the explanation for the blog.

The unemployment? For that, I have no explanation.

***One of these is a joke. 
****......Jewish.