Blogspot, honored guest at the pity party.

Eventually, I plan to go to graduate or medical school. In that sense, I’ve yet to permanently enter the real world. Nonetheless, applying to salaried jobs with health insurance feels at once like waltzing through a shining gate to my future and falling into a den of unspeakable horrors. This den is called Human Resources.

My ragged messenger bag, with a strap that fits uncomfortably across my chest, is my pathetic seat belt on this little trip down. I doubt the calculator, lysine lip balm and crushed ticket stubs contained therein would confer the adequate inertia to anchor me should I be blindsided by a truck, so it doesn't do much for my physical well-being. Still, as something for me to clutch in my old lady claws, it makes me feel safe. What I need right now is such comfort, because I am moving into another one of those high strung periods of debilitating self-doubt and I'm feeling very much alone.

In the two weeks since I started hunting a foggy notion of my figurative tomorrow, I've probably managed to alienate virtually all my friends. Annoying everyone with incessant pleas to 'read this cover letter' or 'edit that writing sample' in such a short span is a feat worthy of admission to some pantheon, to be sure. It strikes me as terribly sad that nagging is not a marketable skill.