"My name is Brett Ann Lalli. I recently graduated with a bachelor of arts in cognitive science, and I am.... "
Pathetic.
I keep reading about this archetype of a jaded, impoverished post-grad in a series of gifs on Buzzfeed, watching it play out on the latest episode of "Girls," thinking "thatisnotmethatisnotmethatisnotme."
It's me.
I'm slumped over on my unmade bed amongst piles of laundry that I did four days ago and still haven't folded. I'm in my room, a cluttered, undecorated room I rented out in a dirty house belonging to a 70-year-old retired schoolteacher that has a yellow lab and doesn't ever leave the couch or god forbid turn off the television for five bleeding seconds. She is currently out there, on the couch, watching the Katie Couric Show or 60 Minutes or the Home Shopping Network or whatever mind-numbing program baby boomers are into these days. I can't leave my room or else she will try to engage me in a conversation about her vericose vein surgery or the desalination plant or the napkin holder she bought at Goodwill. So I have to bring my jar of peanut butter and box of cereal in my room.
Scoop. Dip. Scoop. Dip
That is me scooping peanut butter into a giant spoon and dipping it into a mug of Honey Bunches of Oats. I like the way the cereal sticks to the peanut butter and the peanut butter doesn't even have to try. It's just like "Yeah, I'm sticky. Look how things just stick to me." A bit of corn flake drops indifferently down the front of my fluffy robe. Between the robe and the $20 space heater I named Saving Grace, I should be toasty, but I just want to huddle deeper and cover myself with more layers, more hot air and carbon monoxide.
Scoop. Dip.
I am staring at a blinking cursor. The sense of depletion is awfully familiar. I used to stare at blinking cursors all the time in college, everyone did.
College.
Me: "I think I'm just going to stay here, get a part time job while I look for a better part time job while I look for a full time job while I save up to go back to school."
Pop: "You don't need to do that. You're a bright girl. You have a great degree."
Things I wanted to say: "You realize that means absolutely nothing, right? It's been 30 years since you had to get a job. You lived in a flourishing world. There were opportunities like doorknobs, now there are only opportunities like the last bit of toothpaste you have to squeeze out of a tightly rolled tube.
Dad, I wish you had never told me I was extraordinary. I wish no one had ever told me I was exceptional, that I was bright, that I was beautiful, that I was some grand gift to the world like a second Baby Jesus. Low self-esteem doesn't come from never having heard those words, it comes from having heard those words and then realizing one rude day that that they were never true."
He still pays my rent, so I refrain from tripping those wires.
How the HELL do you write a cover letter?
Stupid question. I know how. I've written dozens. Dozens of lines of bullshit about how OH HEY NAMELESS FACELESS EMPLOYER, I AM AN ANGEL SENT TO YOU FROM GOD TO FILL THIS RECEPTIONIST POSITION. I AM EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED. OF COURSE THIS IS WHAT I WANT TO DO FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Turns out they don't even read them. You don't matter. You're not a person, you're a soulless list of fluff-things that you half-did in college between your last mixed drink and your next warm body. It doesn't matter if you aren't a soulless list of fluff-things. That's what they make you feel like. You don't even know who they are, but you resent them because you need them.
People keep telling me that I need to apply in person, just show up in all my personhood, wearing person clothing and flashing a big person smile. Could I play the part of a "person" well enough during a 20 minute interview that they wouldn't smell my animal-like desperation?
I love animals. They're so simple. They have needs and that's it. They don't have to pretend. I work with animals right now, at my unpaid internship. I work ten hours a day for no money and I don't care. I chop fish and scrub sea lion poop and wear rubber boots that are too big and squelch when I walk. I love it. I want to do it until I die. I have never been happier, but I don't even get to enjoy it. I don't get the luxury of being. I have to move. I have to push. I have to squeeze the tube.
But what I really have to do is write this *#!%$ cover letter.
My name is Brett Ann Lalli. I recently graduated with a bachelor of arts in cognitive science and I am interested in pursuing...
That damn blinking cursor.
