So I just tried to bribe my way in to my dream living situation. Thankfully, I didn't quite go the groveling route, more the quiet simpering, "please please please," approach + $100 extra dollars in rent (yes it was that cheap). For I would love nothing more than to live in a lovingly shackled plywood shed with a stellar view of Queens and the lulling thrum of the john jay byrne bridge. I want to live on the outskirts and feel like I'm in an urban industrial desert. That sounds romantic, but whatever, I want it.
I have reached the point of my post-adolescence where I find myself reaching more and more for the absurd. Maybe it's the misappropriated angst or the bath-water heat, but I find myself striving for ridiculously nuanced, specific situations in living, working, and playing.
Cases in point:
- I applied for a part-time job on the weekends mounting dead butterflies (goth or absurd? we'll see).
- I cold-emailed one of the most exciting print studios in brooklyn and was offered a meeting to just shoot the shit and geek out on registration techniques and pattern repeats (for this i would grovel; i'm talking a writhing/grovel combo).
- I also applied for jobs as: scientific illustrator of biological molecules (wearing a lab coat would be cool), resident drawer for a jewelry company in midtown (gems!), fun dip tester (this one is a lie)
All this in probably my most nihilist summer to date. I blame the pseudo-bohemian bullshit living situation I wedged myself in to, which was great during the brooklyn spring, and humbling (to be polite) in the pollution-cuddled brooklyn summer. (I swear I must sweat two-pounds a day.) I realize it's my style to lament for a spell and then cast as many frantic lines as possible.
I am a huge advocate of the scramble.
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