Complaints About Today
The pool at my apartment complex opened over the weekend. That’s fine, but there should be limits. I mean, nothing says annoying like 23 shrieking kids in a little apartment pool right across from my window. Where are the parents? Furthermore, it is raining today. There was even thunder and lightning earlier. Why are there still kids in my pool? I would say something mean and spiteful, possibly involving the word “drowning”, but the last time I thought that on Monday an ambulance and a fire truck came speeding up and stopped right by the pool, sirens blaring. I felt a little bad. But only a little.
I hate DI. When I say DI, I mean Deseret Industries. It’s the Mormon version of Goodwill, except without the standards. In the rest of the world, when you have some ungodly piece of furniture or a lamp or some old golf clubs or something, you simply take them to the nearest Goodwill. However, sometimes Goodwill will reject the item based on its appearance or some other criteria. No one wants a couch with a nasty stain where the cat vomited in 1978 still clearly visible. No one wants the very first ever VCR with the top-load cassette mechanism and three buttons missing. Goodwill will say “nope” and make you take it away. Not so with DI. No way. You can drag any old piece of shit in there and they will gladly accept it without a word. Without a word in English, I should say, because no one that works in the drop off area speaks it. Walking into a DI is like taking a trip back to 1960. Tweed sports jackets with patches on the elbows, ancient televisions with knobs broken off, three-legged chairs, a couch with that gawd-awful floral print that looks like some kind of disease, old crusty books with pages missing, a radio from 1953, chipped and dusty picture frames (with pictures of Jesus still in them), bicycle helmets with the blood stain still apparent (not kidding), and lamps from the Lincoln administration. The only thing for sale in the place that looks relatively new and unused is the exercise equipment. Everything else is pure, absolute, junk. Just junk. DI sells nothing but junk.
I found a job on Craigslist that I’m eminently qualified for. It’s a job doing Photoshop retouching… something I can do exquisitely. I don’t mean to brag, but Photoshop is my bitch. I use it on a daily basis in my personal life, and getting a job doing that would be heavenly. Here’s the problem though: My resume sucks. All of my work experience involves mostly retail. No mention of Graphic Design or artistic endeavors at all. I can put that under “Interests” or “skills”, but I have no proof of experience or education in this area. I need to get my portfolio going again, but right now it’s not up to par. What to do? Do I send my resume as is, hoping for the benefit of the doubt, or pass up on this one and hope for another opportunity in the near future? I don’t want to embarrass myself with my stupid resume. All I need is a chance to show them what I can do. Sit me down in front of a computer and let me Photoshop something. I hate that my resume doesn’t reflect anything about what I’m good at or what I want to be. I hate my resume. It’s a pitiful document full of ordinary achievements. A complete travesty.
Oh… looks like the rain stopped. Very good.
while. I decided that since I managed to locate the carpet, I’d get the WLV (World’s Loudest Vacuum) and go over it. Who knows when I’ll see it again, right? The WLV did the job of pissing off the neighbors well, gleefully running back and forth and not picking up a damn thing. But at least it made the little wheel tracks that you see after a freshly vacuumed rug, and for a guy… that’s good enough.