Seeking UnEmployment

The last couple of weeks or so had introduced me to a much-needed brilliant new story idea (although, admittedly, all of my ideas are brilliant) as I have found that, despite my best wishes, a steady alcoholic intake does not lead to the creativity many of the artistic type claim it does. Instead, it resulted in many unfortunately incomprehensible letters to faraway friends whom hadn’t been witness to a sober me in several months. So instead, between the sober banalities of the daily grind and an unwillingness to spot for my brothers developing muscles (of which, I would like to mention, I hold no jealousy- mine are much firmer anyway), I came to the exciting conclusion that I could detail my life as a waitress lifting plates. Just the sort of pun that I knew would beautifully grace the top of yet another one of my notes.

Unfortunately, I got the boot- and it was a solidly placed one at that. Obviously, I had yet to learn that opinions or basic disagreements with the unjust should not be expressed around women who get paid more than I do. Subsequently, I not only found myself lacking an income, but a solid story idea; after all, I could never lower myself to writing half-truths and invented facts… not without journalism course papers to fuel the need, at the very least.

Being unintentionally unemployed, I took it upon myself to sleep away the better part of the day, wallow in piles of chocolate bar wrappings and aspire to the drama achieved by the woman who had been knocked up by her boyfriend’s brother on Jerry Springer. I found myself near wishing to have been born into a trailer park so that I too could live the dream; fifteen minutes of fame would undoubtedly be much more satisfying on Maury than they ever would be on Oprah (either way, I don’t believe her viewers would be quite as appreciative of my promiscuity). Besides, my target audience would surely benefit from the numerous advertisements played during the aforementioned show to get them off of their respective asses and into colleges for continuing education. Which, as each highly unproductive day passes (unless, as some women might, you include tanning and baking on your list of daily activities), has become an increasingly attractive option. Perhaps it’s time I accepted that my lack of class is not only a thing to write about, but something to truly embrace. All I need now is to figure out where to pick up my employment insurance cheques.

Growing Down

The worst part, decidedly, about having reached adulthood and apparent “responsibility” is the sudden onslaught of a need to discuss the future. Girl’s nights have become the perfect place to discuss our potential weddings, hours on the job have become those devoted to forecasting my financial prospects, and even conversations with parents (despite how short lived they may be) now revolve around “plans, “hopes” and other sorts of horrifying concepts that really do not belong in the vocabulary of anyone under the age of twenty-five and, particularly, anyone with the mental maturity of a thirteen-year-old. It would have been nice had someone informed me that along with finally obtaining legality (in the larger part of the civilized world; alcohol-phobic states and provinces notwithstanding) that I would be handed a list of obligations and responsibilities. Fantastic.

At an age where my liver is still (relatively) healthy and un-abused, my skin still untarnished by the effects of tobacco and my cognitive skills yet unhindered by a steady intake of THC, I am in a prime state to ruin everything I have going for me. My future successes are something to consider when I can no longer keep up with my own capabilities to process alcohol. After all, planning is evidently not something I find myself able to do in the midst of a thoroughly enjoyable evening; otherwise, I would not find myself in need of being picked up from the hospital at two in the morning. At the very least, I have friends appreciative enough of my inability to function properly to be my “sensible” side for me.

Perhaps, however, I should concede to my acute aversion to any sort of commitment. After settling in with my girls the other night to fawn over a far-fetched love story and hearing afterwards that one of them had already discussed basic marriage plans with her current boyfriend, I came down with a small and sudden panic attack, much to the horror of the three of them; apparently, that was not the expected reaction. It should appear that other people enjoy preparing themselves to be committed to some sort of future, whether it be family or career oriented (as opposed to rehab). I, however, am very content committing to not having the slightest idea what I will be doing within the next hour. It is, after all, my prerogative to be a complete mess.

At my tender age, I have decided that my aspirations will take me no further than the next drink nor will my common sense serve to keep me out of trouble, simply alive. And although many of my peers may deny it, I will readily admit that the little voice at the back of my head is currently not occupied with influencing me in the right direction, but rather telling me that I am quite invincible (and thus far, the evidence has proven the voice consistently right). Who the fuck ever decided it was a good idea to make university students accountable for their own actions anyway?

Exchanging Bullshit

“So you were an exchange student, then?” says the interviewer, unwittingly indulging me in a favourite opportunity to exploit the fact. I smile and nod, explaining that I had a lovely time and that the cultural exposure had really opened my eyes to the world around me, had truly broadened my horizons. Thank God you’re not expected to actually tell the truth to employers.

The application process itself (involving a thorough discourse on myself; a topic at which I excel) is one designed to ensure that all exchange students will make diplomatic representatives of their countries and programs; coincidentally, each of us is endowed with well developed bullshitting skills. My arrival in Switzerland was comprised of jet lag, regular headaches (as the realization that I was subjecting myself to a foreign country alone without any prior knowledge of the language ultimately led to some minor self-abuse) and the introductory camp. Four days after having left home, I found myself wildly gesticulating to a cabin full of other muted fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, attempting to communicate, until our mentors sat us down and got us drunk. Bienvenue a la Suisse!

While popular opinion may measure culture by the number of black-clad artisans decorating cobblestone streets or the degree of confusion the average person experiences while exiting the local museums, my sort of culture was the kind that resulted in a not-so-“fresh” morning wake-ups on park benches or in the corner of the train stations. The people whom my friends and I would randomly go home with after the bar, the coke they snorted and the realization at five o’clock the next morning that we had no idea where the fuck we were defined my exchange. I learned more about myself while wandering drunk through the streets of Geneva with nowhere to stay for the night than I ever did from the hikes my host family grudgingly took me on. Truthfully, how the fuck else would I be as comfortable with ridiculous situations as to not freak out when I find myself trying to find my panties in an unknown house the next morning?

The best lessons, however, were not those I picked up on how to survive an adventurous evening, but rather that there is something to be said for an ability to talk your way out of such situations or their unavoidable consequences. I personally believe that the capability to calm down a knife wielding acquaintance will further my survival more successfully than that of naming the differences between Renaissance swords. The type of cultural exposure that my exchange friends and I sought out could not be legitimately labelled as anything but life experiences; just not necessarily the sort of experiences our parents thought they were paying for.