Firstly, I would like to inform you that the general miserable nature of said post isn’t something that is going to last around here. Tomorrow I’ll be back with dinosaurs and turtles. Today is a bit different though. So sorry about that.
I write to you today with a great deal of dread and disappointment. Readers of mine may recall my recent struggles with preparing myself for admissions into graduate school. Or, should I say, the “graduate admissions process” rather. It’s a rocky road and these past many months have been just as rocky. I took the GRE that said schools beg you to take when you apply, and bombed it worse than Hiroshima.
But I applied for all of these graduate programs, in English, Film Studies (which is basically for film journalism), and actual Journalism. I thought these would be good stepping stones for my continued educational success, as I have 4 years of writing experience with Film Threat, some freelance work with the Orlando Weekly (and other publications), and the fact that I have enough festival experience to drown a space shuttle. All of this worthless, unfortunate, miserable, and basically pay-less experience resides on the lonely pages of my resume. It’s like a document of pointlessness.
People tell you your whole life that “working hard, pays off.” I want to find out who invented that slogan and slit their throat, kill their unborn babies, and stomp on their eyeballs. “Wait dude, why so bitter at your age?” My friend Frank co-runs a website dedicated to a new phenomenon called the ‘quarter life crisis’. It’s like a midlife crisis for we fine young adults, in our mid-20s, searching for a purpose. You can check it out here.
I’m mere inches away from turning 27. I know, that shit isn’t old at all. It’s still quite young actually, to some. But I am going balder than my 86 year-old grandfather, I have no set career path, debt up to my balls (like most people I guess), no real skills worth anything outside of poverty wages, and now, I’ve been denied admissions into more than half of the programs I’ve applied to so far, including the one I wanted to get into most. “Dude, you’re so young. Calm down. Something will come.” Shut the fuck up you.
I don’t give a fuck about age. Age isn’t paying the bills, is it? Age isn’t really bringing me anything, now is it? Is there a point for me to write another word in my life? Sure, I love it – especially the words here – but everything I write outside of here is basically worthless. No one gives a shit about film criticism anymore. And if they did, my words aren’t worthy of a paycheck.
“Doing what you’re passionate about is all that matters.” Fuck that philosophy too. Passion doesn’t write a rent check these days. At least in my world anyway. But this isn’t me being negative or anything like that. So don’t think I’m looking for pity. Instead, think of this as a way to describe the picture I accidentally drew today.
Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head (3/2008)