Yesterday was a bad day.
By a bad day, I mean relative to the general social squalor that's attributed to the unemployed. It was suggested to me that maybe, just maybe, it might be time to start looking for a 'little local job', justified with the defeatist's favourite 'just to tide you over whilst you look for something better'.
Well and truly fuck that.
I don't mean to sound up myself, self indulgent or whichever self-important label you'd be tempted to brand me with. But really, call-centre work for 37 hours a week on minimum wage? Bar work? Shop work? I might as well order a ham and cheese stottie, get in a four pack of Fosters and be done with any sort of short-term aspriation to GET OUT OF THIS PLACE.
Which is of course, my primary aim. This is a prison. I'm two hours from Lancaster, three from Manchester and five from London. Just how in any way am I meant to tee up any genuine future whilst squandering my life away in This Place any longer than absolutely completely onehundredandonepercentandabitmore necessary? I 'just about' have enough money tactically-saved to tide me over and keep me sane during The Rut. I do not care to earn more. Money + living at home = an unwanted safety net. I cannot think of much worse than becoming complacent and 'safe' in This Place.
I can completely accept that yes it would be ideal to keep the mind active, stop an ominous gap opening up on the C.V. and the like. It makes sense. But not here. I'm already suspicious that my West Cumbrian post code is having a detrimental effect on any application I make. I've got a nice little ending para template along the lines of "Please, just don't don't DON'T take my location as an Achilles Heel. I want to get the ****ing **** out of here now. Save me. Be my knight and I'll be your whoreish little princess in her tower. Just don't make that tower be here."
Today though, was a good day. After two months, I think I've finally got a real hand of this cover letter business. I had a look through some from way back when and quite frankly, they were shocking. Today I writ two fresh and each one was inspired my sheer enthusiasm/desperation/desire to throw myself into a new project. I was possibly-maybe-but-not-so-much-I-dare-to-admit complacent in the Early Weeks. I was content waking up at 11, saying goodbye to Friends whilst dipping in and out of A Song of Ice and Fire (which you should definitely read). Now, I hate it. I can feel the creative juices of my mind being boiled away by the incestuous hub I'm caged in. But no, I've taken The Step Out. I'm ready. I will get a job. It will pay respectably. I will learn lots. I will have lots of experience. I will be lots happier. It will be Just Great.
I also heard back for the first time something +'ve (that's 'I'm so hip I don't need your full words' speak for positive) from a prospective employer. They liked (?) my application and have sent me three test tasks to ply my trade on. Needless to say the weekend (inbetween Monza) will be spent with a linguistic and semantic airbrush, weaving works of wicked wust (read: Wossy speak for lust).
Today, for the first time in an age, I feel like I really should deserve to hear something back from the concerned employers.
If I don't, well, see you at the bar. One side or the other. I'll be there until the state pension kicks in. Then I'll just stay on the 'good' side.
Finally on a non-Laika'd side note, after three years, six months and twenty-three days of waiting like a dog-for-a-bone, The Smashing Pumpkins finally announced some British shows. This is a big deal for me. They are my favourite band on this planet ever ever ever. I bought tickets for their shows in Manchester and Brixton. If hypothetical-employer permits, I'm also thinking of doing another one or two shows. Fanboy-till-I-die.