irritants

I'm beginning to wonder whether it was worth getting out of bed this morning. I was having this amazing dream about a movie (I often dream in movies). Very intense. But I emerged from sleep, like the proto-responsible girl I am, to go to my internship. Except nothing was doing at my internship, and after four hours spent in a quiet office, and 3 screenplays read -- two bad, one okay --, I'm home again.

Waiting for me in my mailbox: a rejection letter (!) from a job I applied to, and a bill for some scant medical care I received last fall that it turned out my HMO at the time didn't cover.

Anyway, who receives frikkin rejection letters from jobs? I thought, after I finished the soul-crushing process that was applying to MFA programs, that at least I was guaranteed not to receive another thin envelope in the mail. Sheesus. The funny thing is, I walked away from that interview *positive* that I didn't want that job. It was for an Editorial Assistant position at a lefty academic publishing house -- only, as luck would have it, the particular man I would be working for was straight out of the Heritage Foundation.

The interview went like so:
Me: So, you're in charge of American History? What have you published lately?
Him: Well, I don't really like all that PC stuff.
Me: [brightly] Oh?
Him: Yeah -- the older I get, the more cranky I get about it. Women's history, black history. It's just so small. I like big things: military history, business history! They teach any classes on those at Swarthmore?
me: ... Not so many.

Later:

Me: What about advancement within the company?
Him: I'll be honest with you. It's not that it NEVER happens ...

Then he advised me to try marketing because "the bar is set lower," so it's easier to succeed. Why does everyone want to be an editor anyway?, he mused. Why indeed.

The letter did not come as a surprise. However, I'm beginning to get scared that nobody's ever going to offer me anything, and the city will cut off my allowance, and Mr. Ben will run off with some independently wealthy 30 year old goyishe rock star / dancer, and in desperation I'll have to apply to grad skools again -- an act which will be followed by another avalance of thin envelopes.

Ugh. If you need me I'll be under my kitchen table with a bottle of whiskey and a bag of M&Ms.