Friday, October 15, 2004

This is a comeback reminiscent of an overweight Axl Rose in dreadlocks.

I went to some New York City, Young Bowdoin Alumni event a few weeks back, and shortly after it ended, I decided that never again would I let boredom drive me to do something that stupid.

For the most part, I spent the evening talking to a bunch of people I did not really enjoy talking to. I was never much of a bullshit “socializer” in college, and I did not intend on being one now. I mean, it's not that I disliked these people per se, I was just not “creaming my pants” over them.

NOTE: This is an expression my friend Will got me to start using, and should not imply that the people I was talking to were not incredibly good looking or, more importantly, that I have a problem with unsolicited, premature ejaculation.

Anyway, I guess I was also a bit frustrated by the situation, as well. People kept talking about what they were doing with their lives, and kept asking me annoying questions like “So what are you up to now?” or “Did you get a job yet?” or “Do you know what you want to do with your life?”

Dammit, give me something I don’t need to tactfully evade. How about:

“So what happened on the Maury Povich Show this morning?” or “Are you considering getting a new screen name on Instant Messenger in the near future?” or how about, “Isn’t searching for old elementary school friends on Friendster lots of fun?”

These are questions I can answer, but are apparently, not of consequence to anyone else.

NOTE TO SELF: On second thought, tactfully evade the Friendster question. Girls don’t like guys who are able to find them by any means necessary on the internet.

The only thing I dislike more than having to talk about my current lack of success is talking about the success of others. It is particularly annoying when you are talking to someone who has no fucking idea how fortunate they are.

For example, I was having a conversation with someone who had the gall to complain that her parents were charging her $400 a month in rent! Keep in mind that I had just told her that I was unemployed and frustrated, and she then replied by telling me that she had a job that paid her 70 Grand annually, and came with an additional 10 Thousand dollar signing bonus (even though she can't throw a curveball…and was an art history major).

It’s almost like going up to a homeless person and complaining about indigestion. Yes, you probably ate something that didn’t agree with your stomach, but at the same time…YOU GOT TO EAT SOMETHING. (And got 10 thousand dollars for eating it.)

Another point: A decent apartment in New York City costs between $900 and $1000 a month, so her fascist parents are actually doing her a huge goddamn favor! The whole affair left me wishing I was back home in Queens checking my e-mail for the 10th time in 30 minutes.

I have been unemployed for 4 and a half months now. I’ve gotten close to getting a job a few times, but have just missed out. Apparently, a fresh graduate who has very little practical, real world experience is not as desirable as I would have hoped.

ME: No, I haven't actually done any of those things you listed, but I have read extensively about a lot of people who have...and I want to be one of those people!

THE MAN: I’m sorry, Hari.

ME: But I can write a better than average analytical essay!

THE MAN: Please, you’re making this harder.

ME: C’mon, all my friends say I’m really awesome. Can you just call them and ask! Please?

Seriously, how else am I going to get experience, if no one gives me a chance? This is some kind of fucked up discrimination where people with “experience” only hire other people with “experience.” Well, who is defining what “experience” is anyway? I’ve had lots of “experiences!” Have any of those motherfuckers ever told jokes in front of hundreds of people? Or danced Bhangra in the finest clubs in New Delhi? How about that, you bastards??


Graduating college has somehow become my middle class equivalent to “Black Tuesday.” One second, I am somebody with things to do. With a large community of friends around me. With unlimited refills on soft drinks. And with health insurance. Oh glorious health coverage, how I miss thee! But now, I am nothing… just a “dependent” on my parent’s tax forms.

I spend a lot of my days now downloading Cat Stevens records. I analyze them. I try to figure out what lyrics like “I listen to the wind of my soul” mean, and how they might possibly have a link to terrorism. I’m just trying to do my part to fight this imaginary war.

When I am not awake doing nothing, I am asleep having delusions of grandeur. The other night, for example, I dreamt that I was the first person to design state-of-the-art BLUE HOTELS in Monopoly land. I made a fortune off it, and hid the money in an offshore account, so I could evade that goddamn $75 Luxury Tax!

My God(s), it absolutely amazes me that someone recently attempted to steal my identity and open bank accounts with it. I mean, seriously… why would anyone want to be me right now???

Ok, so I’m being melodramatic…as middle class kids are prone to be. Everything is fine and will continue to be fine. I’m not starving to death or anything like that. In fact, I am gaining weight. Lots of it. I look like I’m taking the year off to have a baby. Except the baby will never get born, and there’s no way of getting rid of it.

“Exercise, you say??? What kind of medieval sorcery are you proposing?”

Actually, for the first time ever, getting fat doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. I’ve been reading a lot about the possible reinstatement of the draft if Bush wins, and it makes me very thankful that I’m not in shape. By the end of the year, the South Beach Diet could possibly be referred to as the Persian Gulf Diet because the army has first dibs on the “physically fit” people. Good luck on the front lines, suckers! I’ll be almost guaranteed for kitchen duty! So, in retrospect, I was not being a glutton all these years… I was simply looking out for my health.

And if they do force me to fight, being chubby might still not be a bad thing. You can keep your 6-pack of abs and your toned biceps! The way I see it, the best way to guarantee having only flesh wounds is actually having more flesh. (Oh, what I’ll believe to justify pizza for breakfast and ice cream for lunch.)

Bottom Line: I’m still looking for work, continuing to overeat, and misusing Friendster. Once I develop some marketable skills…I’m set.


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