What the doctor should have meant: dishery.diaryland.com

Man oh man, look how late it is � where did all the time go? Since you ask, today a big chunk of mine went to a buff-and-polish job on my resume, maintenance which makes me (a) so terrified and whimpering that I am not capable of doing anything else as long as I�m working on it � I am barely capable of higher communication; Melissa passed me in the hall a few minutes ago and she said that they must be keeping me busy today because she hasn�t heard a single peep out me � and (b) superstitious about expending creative effort on anything but the project at hand, like if I even proofread an e-mail then I will jinx myself from ever getting a decent job ever again in my life. I like to work on my resume when I have a listing in front of me for a job I�d drink my own grandmother�s blood to have but that is not completely outside the realm of lottery-winning possibility, something I know I can do and have the on-paper skills to do and could maybe get considered to do if people with a lot more experience were not lining up for the opportunity to take a pay cut to do it, one-upping me by pledging their willingness to drink their grandmothers� urine. I obsess over the listing and craft a resume specifically targeted to make the person screening them in my specific dream company�s HR department stare at her PC monitor in disbelief, eyes welling, and say a silent prayer of thanks: Oh, at last we have found the Chosen One. Or something like that. And, things being what they are blah blah blah, of course I don�t get the job I�ve gotten all warm for � as we have discussed, I don�t even get a nice little thanks-for-applying postcard the way you used to back in the olden days � but what I�m left with is more superstition, this time the comforting belief that the new resume, which arose not by time-to-make-the-donuts rote but out of a sense of wanting, has some magic in it, has some integrity, has something of my real voice talking through it out from between the bullet points. And that sooner or later someone is bound to hear it.

Well. That�s enough about that.

If that�s accurate about higher communication, maybe I should send the new resume to the flunky primates at Seattle magazine! (Um, no.)
Not to mention how funny is poor Melissa�s assumption that they�re keeping me busy � what do people think I would be kept busy doing? It�s a mystery to me.
And I do mean "creative."
As for "decent," for your information and in the interest of honesty, that�s a label I revise downward by the week.
But I�m not bitter!

It�s the craziest thing about "Disintegration." A few days ago I was talking to my sister and she asked me if I owned that cd and I said no and she promised to close that gaping hole in my collection ASAP. Then yesterday, two people whose diaries I read � him and her � both mentioned it in their entries. I went home and there was a mailer from my sister that I unwrapped on the way downstairs to check my e-mail. The cd was in it, and so was a catalog of adorable Japanese purses that her company might start distributing, so I tucked the mailer under my arm as I started paging through it and almost ran into Rebecca, who was also in the computer room. "Hey," she asked me, "do you happen to have a copy of �Disintegration�? I can�t find mine." Whoa, dude! Top 7 College Albums, ha ha ha. If I named mine you�d think I was putting together my playlist for the annual AARP Prune Whirl dance. So I will refrain. The first Cure album I bought was "Happily Ever After," on vinyl if you please, and I remember when "Standing On A Beach" came out feeling sorry for the Cure, I�d had no idea their career was so close to being over that they felt compelled to milk it for every last cent they could get. Ha ha ha. So Mary�s also going to send me some Gin Blossoms, which she says is "pure pop" without which I am not complete, and I didn�t even get the option of saying no thanks. In return I am going to send her a legit (!) copy of my boyfriends� latest issue, because when it comes to pop I want it all, I like it up and down and sideways. (Sorry, was that gross?)

Steve might get cable. "I think you need John Stewart and I need South Park and the Discovery Channel," he wrote. I think I need a towel. More on this thrilling story as it develops. Also, thanks to Market Optical my orange glasses are in better shape than they have been since DM stepped on them in Amsterdam almost four (Jesus) years ago, and now that I think of it, was that when it all started? Was that when things started to lurch downhill for me, was that the beginning of losing as much as I have, was that when I got so stupid and fearful and started making such bad and self-damning choices? It�s true that I have never regained the satisfying sense of my life�s coherence and promise that I had just before Amsterdam, and in retrospect it�s true that Amsterdam is where I seem to have entered into a pact with myself not to believe things that everyone knew were true. I don�t mean this melodramatically, but that�s where I lost what I thought was my lifeline and panicked and also started making up arbitrary rules and a survival strategy that, in panic, I would soon stop distinguishing from each other. And that�s where the whole ugly part started. I have often made noises over the past several months about how I�m finally turning the corner, and to my embarrassment � the historical record shames me � I have been wrong. I�m also ashamed that I have such a flimsy sense of myself anymore, that I could have taken the measurements but botched the calculation so badly. I�m the girl who cried wolfless, so, please, don�t listen to a thing I say. In fact, I will keep it to myself. I will not say it at all.

Speaking of thrilling stories, how about those schoolgirls in Chicago? Is that sort of thing normal these days? I don�t have a clue about you young whippersnappers and your Cure albums. And read this (fast, because their links are not evergreen) this if you are interested in criticism vs. hostility vs. "snark," which is defined here as a "hostile, knowing, bitter tone of contempt" � not exactly how I�d spell it out, but OK � and wouldn�t mind a little literary gossip on the side. Bonus question: When Joe Hagan refers to "Mr. Eggers� beloved 2000 memoir," implying that this judgment is canonical and incontrovertible, is he being snarky?

I have to post this, get some things in order, and then go to the shrink. Adieu, babaloo.