Yeah, my client didn't show for our 7:30AM meeting.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Grammar Rules I Made Up: Which vs. What
If you would use the adjective "fewer" to describe a noun, you'd also use "which." For example, "fewer customers" and "which customers." If you would use the adjective "less" to describe a noun, you'd also use "what." For example, "less data" and "what data."
Saturday, May 16, 2009
From the Archives
Searched through my Gmail for an itinerary when I stumbled across this email that I sent to a friend back when I worked at my last company.
Work is terrible for me right now, too. I had to miss our flag football game last night because somebody had to go to a class so I had to put together our daily status report again and get yelled at by our client on our lack of progress until 8:00p. That's better than Monday, when I got yelled at until 9:00p, then had to finish the rest of my work afterwards. On top of that, we were just told (more like confirmed for me since that was part of the yelling last night) that we would be working our next two weekends. So that'll be five weekends in a row. After that, I'll be going downtown to test at client site over the weekends in October.
My morale is at zero right now, and I am going out of my way to look like the most disgruntled employee without dropping my standard of work. The client project manager and her goons are in our lab right now. My team lead sent out an email regarding which day is our preference for working this weekend. I just yelled out across the room, "I have no preference. I don't want to work either day equally."
You know what, fuck that, I'm going home.
Haha, oh Enterprise Solutions Services team ...... nope, still can't laugh at it. Fuck that project.
Work is terrible for me right now, too. I had to miss our flag football game last night because somebody had to go to a class so I had to put together our daily status report again and get yelled at by our client on our lack of progress until 8:00p. That's better than Monday, when I got yelled at until 9:00p, then had to finish the rest of my work afterwards. On top of that, we were just told (more like confirmed for me since that was part of the yelling last night) that we would be working our next two weekends. So that'll be five weekends in a row. After that, I'll be going downtown to test at client site over the weekends in October.
My morale is at zero right now, and I am going out of my way to look like the most disgruntled employee without dropping my standard of work. The client project manager and her goons are in our lab right now. My team lead sent out an email regarding which day is our preference for working this weekend. I just yelled out across the room, "I have no preference. I don't want to work either day equally."
You know what, fuck that, I'm going home.
Haha, oh Enterprise Solutions Services team ...... nope, still can't laugh at it. Fuck that project.
Monday, May 4, 2009
"Burned" -- A Short Story
I finished my 1500 word short story and submitted it, quite literally, at the 11th hour to the Washington Post 2009 Fiction Contest. Fiction isn't exactly my strong suit, but fuck it, I ain't exactly winning any Bloggies either.
Please let me know if it fell apart at the end. That 1500 word limit snuck up on me like a Japanese subway groper. Just keep in mind that I originally had the protagonist killing everyone in the end, but I didn't feel that kept in line with the "love story" theme of the contest.
Cyndi holds the mask up in front of herself, obstructing her view of my face. It is a black face mask with large blue ruffles erupting from all sides, bringing to mind something one might see at a masquerade ball or on a more flamboyant Phantom of the Opera. I see her staring at me through one eye socket. Cyndi has amazing lips and a treasure trove of a chest. This is the first time she has looked directly at me all evening, as if this mask protected her eyes from the blinding eclipse that is my horrifying face.
“Why don't you try wearing this?” she asks me, as politely as one possibly can while telling someone no woman will ever look upon him with desire again.
“I don't need that,” I reply.
“Are you sure?” She is slightly frantic. Cyndi is the make-up artist here on The Late Night Show, and some demented producer gave her the sadistic task of trying to make the burger meat sitting on my neck resemble a human face. We have been here for three hours. Michelangelo couldn't paint humanity onto my face if he had four years.
“Look,” she is desperate now. “There isn't even a strap. You just put this part on your...um...”
She is searching for my nose. My patience for this farce is also gone.
“We're done.” I get up and leave the make-up room. Cyndi bounds after me, still clutching the mask. They gave her three hours with me—she is the best, they informed me—and she did the equivalent of put breading on a beef patty.
I storm down the hallway. Everyone stares. Some quickly turn away, others cannot stop gawking. There are a number of shock-induced profanities uttered. None of this is new to me anymore.
I spot Felipe, the stage manager, talking into his headset.
“Felipe.”
He turns toward me, releases a shrill scream, and hits me over the head with his clipboard.
Okay that one's new.
“Oh my God, I am so so sorry, Kevin!” I hear agitated commotion on the other end of his headset. “I thought...I...I thought I saw something!”
“It was my face.”
“No, no! It was...oh,” Felipe looks directly at me. “Did you and Cyndi finish?”
Felipe looks behind me, where Cyndi stands, still nervously clasping that stupid mask. She shakes her head and mouths No!
“Yes, we're done.”
Felipe grits his teeth, staring at my face, then looking back at Cyndi who just holds out the mask and shrugs. He clears his throat and buttons back up his professionalism.
“Okay, well, come with me, Kevin. We're almost to your segment, so we're just going to put you in the green room and someone will come get you when Noah is ready for you. Okay?”
He grabs me by the arm and starts leading me around the corner. I catch one final glimpse of Cyndi. She wears the most worried expression on her face.
It is one month ago. I have a face. I have a nose. I have ears. I have lips. I have hair. My girlfriend's hands glide through my hair. Her name is Honey. Honey and I have just made love. We lie on the couch now, a glowing mass of intertwined limbs.
“The problem,” Honey tells me, “is that I don't have any close friends who are any good at making speeches. I mean, I know Melissa will try her best and do a decent job, but she's not going to knock anyone's tops off.”
“Is that your criteria now for maid of honor? Maybe we can put up some flyers at the library. 'Looking for new, well-spoken, grammatically-proficient best friend. Must be a size six.'”
“I want you to do my maid of honor speech!” She twists on top of me and slaps her hands down on my chest. Her smile is as mischievous as a promise from the devil.
“Won't I be busy being the groom?”
“At least help Melissa write it! This is an important part of the wedding, Kevin! I don't want people to tell their friends, 'Great wedding! The bride was beautiful. The ceremony was moving. The speech? Oh yeah, the best man talked about Kevin being drunk when he met Honey, and the girl's was even worse than that.'”
We debate the value of sentimentality over humor. Honey is hungry. I hop outside and head toward the deli around the corner. I smell smoke, but I don't hear any fire engines.
Honey. I loved her. She cries so much when she is with me in the hospital. She holds my bandaged hands and cries for three weeks. The temporary skin grafts on my face fail to show a response. Melissa is clutching Honey's shoulders, pulling her away as she weeps, “I can't! I just can't anymore, Kevin!”
I never see her again.
“Welcome back to the Late Night Show. Our next guest you're all very familiar with. You know, those of you who've turned on your TVs in the last month.”
Chuckles from the audience. A “PLEASE LAUGH” sign must have lit up. Noah Keaton, just another late night talk show host bolstered by fastidious writers and an immaculate hair stylist.
“He ran into a burning apartment building over and over again and rescued seven tenants, including three,” Noah pauses for idiotic effect, “very young children.”
The audience nods, impressed by his words. The beautiful, young Hollywood starlet next to him is entranced. Goddammit, I prayed I'd be on with Pacino or Nicholson or a cave troll. Anything but this heroine of a Greek epic.
“He suffered third degree burns over 85% of his body, but God rewards the just, my friends, and he pulled through.”
The crowd cheers. I want to vomit on Noah Keaton.
“After over a month in the hospital, he's finally ready to step out and meet his fans. Ladies and gentlemen, a true hero, Kevin Lira!”
Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?
It's too late now. The crowd is up on its feet, clapping and screaming. Felipe is flapping his arm at me and hissing at me to hurry out.
There is an embarrassingly noticeable pause in clapping as everyone stops to gasp and groan before forcibly redoubling their clapping efforts.
I shake hands with Noah, who gapes at me in shock, then throws a fierce glare toward Felipe. The Hollywood starlet hesitantly extends her hand toward mine with all the enthusiasm of unclogging a stranger's toilet. I sit down between her and Noah. She pastes the most pleasant smile on her face even as she practically falls out of her seat leaning away from me.
“So, Kevin” Noah stammers, “how has life been since your act of heroism?”
“Noah,” I stare directly at him as he fights to suppress a shudder, “I look like a hamburger.”
Chuckles from the audience.
Noah tells me I did a great job. Really connected with the audience. No one even noticed how hideously disfigured I was by the end of the interview.
I sit alone in my dressing room. Someone knocks on my door. It's Cyndi. Jesus Christ, she still has the mask. She tells me she saw the interview and really liked the things I said. I thank her. She bites her lip, staring down at the floor, this time not just to avoid looking at my face.
“I wanted to ask you about what you said when Noah asked you why you ran into that building. And why you kept running back into that building.”
“Why?” Noah asks me. “What drove you to act with so little disregard for your own life?”
Madness. Lunacy. Stupidity.
“Love,” I answer, sheepishly. The crowd groans. “I was a young man in love. I believed in many foolish things. You know what the say about love. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
“First Corinthians. One of my favorite verses,” Noah announces, proudly.
“Well, don’t take the words literally, Noah.”
The crowd laughs.
Cyndi looks at me earnestly. “Do you still believe in that?”
Is that a touch of restlessness I feel inside this smothering fog?
“Listen, Cyndi, do you want to...maybe...”
I have never seen the color flee so quickly from a person’s face, even for me. Cyndi’s eyes widen, looking for this stone of shame I am about to cast at her.
“...show me the way out?”
Life returns to her pigments. Cyndi swallows down hard a sigh of relief.
“Of course, it’s just down the hall. I’ll walk with you.”
We walk a palpable distance apart from each other as we make our way down the hall to our adieu.
“Well?” She stares at me again.
“Yes?”
“Do you still believe in love?”
I smile benignly, and so does she. Why lie? I walk out the door, and she closes it behind me.
Please let me know if it fell apart at the end. That 1500 word limit snuck up on me like a Japanese subway groper. Just keep in mind that I originally had the protagonist killing everyone in the end, but I didn't feel that kept in line with the "love story" theme of the contest.
BURNED
Cyndi holds the mask up in front of herself, obstructing her view of my face. It is a black face mask with large blue ruffles erupting from all sides, bringing to mind something one might see at a masquerade ball or on a more flamboyant Phantom of the Opera. I see her staring at me through one eye socket. Cyndi has amazing lips and a treasure trove of a chest. This is the first time she has looked directly at me all evening, as if this mask protected her eyes from the blinding eclipse that is my horrifying face.
“Why don't you try wearing this?” she asks me, as politely as one possibly can while telling someone no woman will ever look upon him with desire again.
“I don't need that,” I reply.
“Are you sure?” She is slightly frantic. Cyndi is the make-up artist here on The Late Night Show, and some demented producer gave her the sadistic task of trying to make the burger meat sitting on my neck resemble a human face. We have been here for three hours. Michelangelo couldn't paint humanity onto my face if he had four years.
“Look,” she is desperate now. “There isn't even a strap. You just put this part on your...um...”
She is searching for my nose. My patience for this farce is also gone.
“We're done.” I get up and leave the make-up room. Cyndi bounds after me, still clutching the mask. They gave her three hours with me—she is the best, they informed me—and she did the equivalent of put breading on a beef patty.
I storm down the hallway. Everyone stares. Some quickly turn away, others cannot stop gawking. There are a number of shock-induced profanities uttered. None of this is new to me anymore.
I spot Felipe, the stage manager, talking into his headset.
“Felipe.”
He turns toward me, releases a shrill scream, and hits me over the head with his clipboard.
Okay that one's new.
“Oh my God, I am so so sorry, Kevin!” I hear agitated commotion on the other end of his headset. “I thought...I...I thought I saw something!”
“It was my face.”
“No, no! It was...oh,” Felipe looks directly at me. “Did you and Cyndi finish?”
Felipe looks behind me, where Cyndi stands, still nervously clasping that stupid mask. She shakes her head and mouths No!
“Yes, we're done.”
Felipe grits his teeth, staring at my face, then looking back at Cyndi who just holds out the mask and shrugs. He clears his throat and buttons back up his professionalism.
“Okay, well, come with me, Kevin. We're almost to your segment, so we're just going to put you in the green room and someone will come get you when Noah is ready for you. Okay?”
He grabs me by the arm and starts leading me around the corner. I catch one final glimpse of Cyndi. She wears the most worried expression on her face.
***
It is one month ago. I have a face. I have a nose. I have ears. I have lips. I have hair. My girlfriend's hands glide through my hair. Her name is Honey. Honey and I have just made love. We lie on the couch now, a glowing mass of intertwined limbs.
“The problem,” Honey tells me, “is that I don't have any close friends who are any good at making speeches. I mean, I know Melissa will try her best and do a decent job, but she's not going to knock anyone's tops off.”
“Is that your criteria now for maid of honor? Maybe we can put up some flyers at the library. 'Looking for new, well-spoken, grammatically-proficient best friend. Must be a size six.'”
“I want you to do my maid of honor speech!” She twists on top of me and slaps her hands down on my chest. Her smile is as mischievous as a promise from the devil.
“Won't I be busy being the groom?”
“At least help Melissa write it! This is an important part of the wedding, Kevin! I don't want people to tell their friends, 'Great wedding! The bride was beautiful. The ceremony was moving. The speech? Oh yeah, the best man talked about Kevin being drunk when he met Honey, and the girl's was even worse than that.'”
We debate the value of sentimentality over humor. Honey is hungry. I hop outside and head toward the deli around the corner. I smell smoke, but I don't hear any fire engines.
Honey. I loved her. She cries so much when she is with me in the hospital. She holds my bandaged hands and cries for three weeks. The temporary skin grafts on my face fail to show a response. Melissa is clutching Honey's shoulders, pulling her away as she weeps, “I can't! I just can't anymore, Kevin!”
I never see her again.
***
“Welcome back to the Late Night Show. Our next guest you're all very familiar with. You know, those of you who've turned on your TVs in the last month.”
Chuckles from the audience. A “PLEASE LAUGH” sign must have lit up. Noah Keaton, just another late night talk show host bolstered by fastidious writers and an immaculate hair stylist.
“He ran into a burning apartment building over and over again and rescued seven tenants, including three,” Noah pauses for idiotic effect, “very young children.”
The audience nods, impressed by his words. The beautiful, young Hollywood starlet next to him is entranced. Goddammit, I prayed I'd be on with Pacino or Nicholson or a cave troll. Anything but this heroine of a Greek epic.
“He suffered third degree burns over 85% of his body, but God rewards the just, my friends, and he pulled through.”
The crowd cheers. I want to vomit on Noah Keaton.
“After over a month in the hospital, he's finally ready to step out and meet his fans. Ladies and gentlemen, a true hero, Kevin Lira!”
Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?
It's too late now. The crowd is up on its feet, clapping and screaming. Felipe is flapping his arm at me and hissing at me to hurry out.
There is an embarrassingly noticeable pause in clapping as everyone stops to gasp and groan before forcibly redoubling their clapping efforts.
I shake hands with Noah, who gapes at me in shock, then throws a fierce glare toward Felipe. The Hollywood starlet hesitantly extends her hand toward mine with all the enthusiasm of unclogging a stranger's toilet. I sit down between her and Noah. She pastes the most pleasant smile on her face even as she practically falls out of her seat leaning away from me.
“So, Kevin” Noah stammers, “how has life been since your act of heroism?”
“Noah,” I stare directly at him as he fights to suppress a shudder, “I look like a hamburger.”
Chuckles from the audience.
***
Noah tells me I did a great job. Really connected with the audience. No one even noticed how hideously disfigured I was by the end of the interview.
I sit alone in my dressing room. Someone knocks on my door. It's Cyndi. Jesus Christ, she still has the mask. She tells me she saw the interview and really liked the things I said. I thank her. She bites her lip, staring down at the floor, this time not just to avoid looking at my face.
“I wanted to ask you about what you said when Noah asked you why you ran into that building. And why you kept running back into that building.”
***
“Why?” Noah asks me. “What drove you to act with so little disregard for your own life?”
Madness. Lunacy. Stupidity.
“Love,” I answer, sheepishly. The crowd groans. “I was a young man in love. I believed in many foolish things. You know what the say about love. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.”
“First Corinthians. One of my favorite verses,” Noah announces, proudly.
“Well, don’t take the words literally, Noah.”
The crowd laughs.
***
Cyndi looks at me earnestly. “Do you still believe in that?”
Is that a touch of restlessness I feel inside this smothering fog?
“Listen, Cyndi, do you want to...maybe...”
I have never seen the color flee so quickly from a person’s face, even for me. Cyndi’s eyes widen, looking for this stone of shame I am about to cast at her.
“...show me the way out?”
Life returns to her pigments. Cyndi swallows down hard a sigh of relief.
“Of course, it’s just down the hall. I’ll walk with you.”
We walk a palpable distance apart from each other as we make our way down the hall to our adieu.
“Well?” She stares at me again.
“Yes?”
“Do you still believe in love?”
I smile benignly, and so does she. Why lie? I walk out the door, and she closes it behind me.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Lessons from My Brothers: 90%
Recently, a group of friends and I congregated at one of their places, where we entertained ourselves by having a few drinks and asking each other questions from The Book of Questions as well as its sluttier and predictably more fun sibling, The Book of Questions: Love & Sex.
Sample questions from the books:
My bro Mark, always an outspoken one, went first. He thought about his looks for a second, then replied: 90.
Ninety. As in the 90th percentile of looks. The equivalent of a 1940 on the SAT's (or a 1300 on the Critical Reading and Math sections, for those of us who applied to college in an era not defined by High School Musical). Looks are to Mark what academic achievement is to RPI and Georgia Tech.
This is my bro, Mark:
Now I love Mark like a brother, but he is not better-looking than 90% of all men in the world.
So of course I started laughing at him. And that's when he hit me with some knowledge.
When it comes to something as abstract as looks, it doesn't matter what you are as much as what you think you are. If you're the type who goes out to bars and tries to pick up women, you're not going to succeed if you think you're an ugly old bastard.
Essentially, Mark directly answered the essence of what the question was trying to get. A 90 doesn't mean he thinks he's better looking than 90% of all men. A 90 just means, if Mark sees a smolderingly hot girl at a bar -- assuming he's single, which we sometimes need to remind him he is not -- he's very likely going to talk to her (and you can believe, after a few drinks, he becomes a 99 and then will definitely talk to her).
And then is it any wonder why I have so many pictures of Mark's ugly ass with women around whom he has no business being?
But that's what 90% means. So next time you look at yourself in the mirror, don't be afraid to smile. Point. Give yourself a little wink. And play on, playa.
(Just to close the gap, I believe Mark also went intelligence - 75, personality - 95. Those, too, are highly questionable results to me.)
Sample questions from the books:
- Out of all the people you know, whose death would you find most disturbing?
- Would you rather date someone with an average face and an amazing body, or someone with an amazing face and an average body?
- Have you ever had sexual feelings toward a family member? Whom?
My bro Mark, always an outspoken one, went first. He thought about his looks for a second, then replied: 90.
Ninety. As in the 90th percentile of looks. The equivalent of a 1940 on the SAT's (or a 1300 on the Critical Reading and Math sections, for those of us who applied to college in an era not defined by High School Musical). Looks are to Mark what academic achievement is to RPI and Georgia Tech.
This is my bro, Mark:
Now I love Mark like a brother, but he is not better-looking than 90% of all men in the world.So of course I started laughing at him. And that's when he hit me with some knowledge.
When it comes to something as abstract as looks, it doesn't matter what you are as much as what you think you are. If you're the type who goes out to bars and tries to pick up women, you're not going to succeed if you think you're an ugly old bastard.
Essentially, Mark directly answered the essence of what the question was trying to get. A 90 doesn't mean he thinks he's better looking than 90% of all men. A 90 just means, if Mark sees a smolderingly hot girl at a bar -- assuming he's single, which we sometimes need to remind him he is not -- he's very likely going to talk to her (and you can believe, after a few drinks, he becomes a 99 and then will definitely talk to her).
And then is it any wonder why I have so many pictures of Mark's ugly ass with women around whom he has no business being?
 |  |
 | |
But that's what 90% means. So next time you look at yourself in the mirror, don't be afraid to smile. Point. Give yourself a little wink. And play on, playa.
(Just to close the gap, I believe Mark also went intelligence - 75, personality - 95. Those, too, are highly questionable results to me.)
Friday, March 27, 2009
Alternatively...
In the locker room at the Ballston Gold's Gym, there is a sign on the floor that says, "Know that if it hurts to tie your shoes, you're doing something right."
One day I'm going to paste another sign in the same colors and font underneath that sign that reads, "Or something catastrophically WRONG."
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Pornography for Women
Was slightly intrigued by the responses I got back from several comments I made about the "Twilight" movie (which sucked), so I decided to further investigate the phenomenon. That's when I found an enlightening article on it by Laura Miller at Salon.com:
http://www.salon.com/books/review/2008/07/30/Twilight/index.html
What is it, exactly, about this fairytale of bloodsucking fiends that makes girls want to throw their menstrual pads at Robert Pattison in salacious desire? Miller eloquently explains in 2,800 words what I will patronizingly summarize in three: Chicks love attention. Twilight is a four-part epic of a modest, unremarkable, awkward girl who fulfills every girl's three greatest fantasies:
First, I have to admit that I rarely ever read fiction, and when I do, it's not likely to slant toward the childrens/young adult section of the library where the Harry Potter fanatics and strangers with candy dwell. However, I am always fascinated by social trends, and I have been impressed by the followings of both the Potter series and Twilight. Yet Miller is quick to caution against the zealous dilettantes trying to draw too many parallels between the two.
No wonder the media has heralded Twilight as the next Harry Potter and [BYU-enthusiast and super-conservative Mormon author Stephanie] Meyer as the second coming of J.K. [Rowling] The similarities, however, are largely commercial. It's hard to see how Twilight could ever approach Harry Potter as a cultural phenomenon for one simple reason: the series' fan base is almost exclusively female.
- Rescued and adored by Prince Charming, the most handsome and unattainable member of the highest aristocracy in the land.
- Converted the Bad Boy into the most conservative of conservative, chivalrous, self-restrained, well-mannered, no-sex-before-marriage slave...er...gentleman.
- And everybody sees.
Such are the tortured internal contradictions of romance, as nonsensical as its masculine counterpart, pornography, and every bit as habit forming. Search a little deeper on the Internet and you can find women readers both objecting to the antifeminist aspects of Twilight and admitting that they found the books irresistible.
Touché, Laura Miller. You speak my language after all. Okay, I'll admit that not all academically struggling schoolgirls end up blowing their professors for A's (only most do) if you're willing to admit that the only real men who are cultured, stunningly attractive, and respectful to women are gay.
But that doesn't mean we can't dream, baby.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Still sitting on the runway.
A few months ago, my bro Mark was feeling particularly downtrodden about his life. Like many of us do from time to time, he went into his office and vented his frustrations with his colleagues.
"Do you ever feel like the joy has just been sucked out of your life?" he asked them. "What am I doing here?" he brooded.
Of course, Mark's office is an after school day care center for middle school children, and his colleagues are 10-12 year olds.
An autistic girl laughed at him. That was all the insight they could provide him.
There was a line that I wanted to write here, but I removed for fear of distastefulness and loss of employment. I think "for fear of distastefulness and loss of employment" has destroyed any atrophied writing ability I had left.
The line was: "Well fuck you, too."
At this point, I'm all out of distractions. I go on Facebook and look at old friends, classmates, and colleagues and where they're going in their lives. Their grad schools, their new jobs, their new cities, their -- God help me -- marriages. At once I am filled with both condescension for the banal paths they have chosen as well as envy for the direction they have found and progress they have made.
And yet here I live, in their world. What am I doing here? Where am I going? And why, five years out of college, am I still asking the same questions?
Since childhood, I have been marked with the curse of potential. When you're young, you're tall, and you speak coherently, people tend to expect things out of you. My first job out of high school was for this sales firm selling Cutco knives, still the best cutlery I've ever used and a luxury that I wouldn't waste money on if I were 1991 MC Hammer-rich. We interviewed as a group, and I was in the first pair selected and hired. After my first all-hands meeting at the company, they tapped me to be part of the key employees group to lead and mentor other employees. It's fair to say they had some expectations for me.
A few years later, I found out my friend Gerald from college also sold these knives for a summer, made thousands of dollars, and, with proceeds from his other jobs that summer, bought his first BMW. Let me tell you how my only two sales went. First I gave my entire long presentation to a friend's mom. She wasn't interested. Her husband came home around then, took a look at the knives, and bought two without listening to a thing I said. The second and last sale I made was the fire sale I had trying to get rid of my stock about 10 days after I started. I worked at Old Navy the rest of the summer.
Here's what I learned from that experience. If you think it's stupid for someone to pay $760 for a fucking box of knives, Cutco's standard set at the time, you're probably not going to convince anybody to do so. Whatever I've been trying to sell myself about my career and my future for the last five years of my life, I've been doing it with the same disbelief that I had trying to convince middle-class Ohio housewives they needed $760 knives. I'm not buying it.
At a certain point in life, all the potential everyone had once seen in you becomes overshadowed by the reality of your production. I am well passed that point, and my list of accomplishments is noticeably empty, even if my resume appears filled with experience.
That will change. Soon.
"Do you ever feel like the joy has just been sucked out of your life?" he asked them. "What am I doing here?" he brooded.
Of course, Mark's office is an after school day care center for middle school children, and his colleagues are 10-12 year olds.
An autistic girl laughed at him. That was all the insight they could provide him.
There was a line that I wanted to write here, but I removed for fear of distastefulness and loss of employment. I think "for fear of distastefulness and loss of employment" has destroyed any atrophied writing ability I had left.
The line was: "Well fuck you, too."
At this point, I'm all out of distractions. I go on Facebook and look at old friends, classmates, and colleagues and where they're going in their lives. Their grad schools, their new jobs, their new cities, their -- God help me -- marriages. At once I am filled with both condescension for the banal paths they have chosen as well as envy for the direction they have found and progress they have made.
And yet here I live, in their world. What am I doing here? Where am I going? And why, five years out of college, am I still asking the same questions?
Since childhood, I have been marked with the curse of potential. When you're young, you're tall, and you speak coherently, people tend to expect things out of you. My first job out of high school was for this sales firm selling Cutco knives, still the best cutlery I've ever used and a luxury that I wouldn't waste money on if I were 1991 MC Hammer-rich. We interviewed as a group, and I was in the first pair selected and hired. After my first all-hands meeting at the company, they tapped me to be part of the key employees group to lead and mentor other employees. It's fair to say they had some expectations for me.
A few years later, I found out my friend Gerald from college also sold these knives for a summer, made thousands of dollars, and, with proceeds from his other jobs that summer, bought his first BMW. Let me tell you how my only two sales went. First I gave my entire long presentation to a friend's mom. She wasn't interested. Her husband came home around then, took a look at the knives, and bought two without listening to a thing I said. The second and last sale I made was the fire sale I had trying to get rid of my stock about 10 days after I started. I worked at Old Navy the rest of the summer.
Here's what I learned from that experience. If you think it's stupid for someone to pay $760 for a fucking box of knives, Cutco's standard set at the time, you're probably not going to convince anybody to do so. Whatever I've been trying to sell myself about my career and my future for the last five years of my life, I've been doing it with the same disbelief that I had trying to convince middle-class Ohio housewives they needed $760 knives. I'm not buying it.
At a certain point in life, all the potential everyone had once seen in you becomes overshadowed by the reality of your production. I am well passed that point, and my list of accomplishments is noticeably empty, even if my resume appears filled with experience.
That will change. Soon.
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