I’m dying. Literally. My belly burns and my head is throbbing. I slept on the floor. I’m sure I said something stupid.
We had our first friend visit. Beth and her man came through last night and she was generous beyond belief. I hadn’t drunk for a few days and by a few I mean 3. 3 sober days. We started late, around 11, and I couldn’t tell you when we stopped or when I got home. You do that here, loose time. We ended up at the Tiki Bar. They pour ‘em short but they pour them strong.
Beth played golf in the street. My man chatted it up with a local loon. I drank. I drank too much. I’m dying. Now I’m at home, alone. The man is working for free, again. I hope I didn’t keep him out too late. I hope he didn’t tie one on too. I wouldn’t know because we’re not speaking. I’m sure I said something stupid. Why else would I sleep on the floor?
Beth is now gone. It was fun. It went too fast. It was nice to have a friend here. Even for a minute.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Another One Bites the Dust
I have sent out more resumes than I can count with, sadly, few responses. Over qualified, under qualified, getting lost in the shuffle . . . don’t know what the deal is but I suspect some have something to do with managers who just don’t want the competition. My resume is pretty good, if I say so myself, and my cover letters are always thoughtful and well written so why can’t I even get a call back in most instances? Well, I got a call yesterday for a server position and, after selling myself over the phone, (apparently I had screwed up and not attached a resume – so I got the call simply off the cover letter) I managed to get an interview that same day.
A few hours later I meet with the chef and the interview went well. There is always room for improvement but it went well enough that he passes me onto round two with a FOH manager. She and I didn’t hit it off.
The first thing out of her mouth: she insults my hand shake. I make a joke. She scoffs at my resume.
This version of my resume is scaled down to one page simply noting my employer, position and dates of employment. Next line of attack: longevity.
I don’t happen to think stints of 1 – 3 ½ years a piece plus having owned and operated my own business since 2000 is a “problem with longevity.” Restaurants are a pretty volatile industry and a year here, a year there is no big deal where I’m from, in fact it’s better than many with 6 month stints. Apparently, according to her, things aren’t done like that here. Sure, I’d love to stick around longer if I had a job that was challenging enough to stick around for; or maybe some upward opportunities presented themselves but generally my “job jumping” is the result of 1.the business itself changing (i.e., partner litigation, lay-offs, etc) or 2. I receive an offer of more money and/or more responsibility elsewhere. As I see, it’s just sound decision making on my part. But I digress.
I heard this lady yelling at the staff just prior to meeting with me. No big deal, I’ve been in her shoes, and sometimes someone’s behavior warrants a firm conversation but why was she taking this posture with me? We argued. All she wanted to hear was me agreeing with her. What was it to me? A job, that’s what; so I did, I agreed. The meeting was brief; she basically made fun of my responses. She was pinched. She seemed threatened – especially every time she minimized my experience. She made a point of reiterating on like 4 occasions that it was likely I wouldn’t “work the floor” (you start as a busser, expo, take some tests, suck up to the floor manager – I know the drill) for what could be months.
Yeah, I get it. I go through the hoops and hopefully make some good money when you’re through. At the end, however, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear back or, if I did, if I’d even make any money being there. There were only 4 front servers, and not a lot of covers, but the menu is smart, the chef seemed to have it together and the press had, thus far, been positive.
I do the right thing. I send the chef a thank you e-mail. 20 minutes later she, the FOH manager, calls me back and schedules a 2nd interview. We’ll see how this one goes.
A few hours later I meet with the chef and the interview went well. There is always room for improvement but it went well enough that he passes me onto round two with a FOH manager. She and I didn’t hit it off.
The first thing out of her mouth: she insults my hand shake. I make a joke. She scoffs at my resume.
This version of my resume is scaled down to one page simply noting my employer, position and dates of employment. Next line of attack: longevity.
I don’t happen to think stints of 1 – 3 ½ years a piece plus having owned and operated my own business since 2000 is a “problem with longevity.” Restaurants are a pretty volatile industry and a year here, a year there is no big deal where I’m from, in fact it’s better than many with 6 month stints. Apparently, according to her, things aren’t done like that here. Sure, I’d love to stick around longer if I had a job that was challenging enough to stick around for; or maybe some upward opportunities presented themselves but generally my “job jumping” is the result of 1.the business itself changing (i.e., partner litigation, lay-offs, etc) or 2. I receive an offer of more money and/or more responsibility elsewhere. As I see, it’s just sound decision making on my part. But I digress.
I heard this lady yelling at the staff just prior to meeting with me. No big deal, I’ve been in her shoes, and sometimes someone’s behavior warrants a firm conversation but why was she taking this posture with me? We argued. All she wanted to hear was me agreeing with her. What was it to me? A job, that’s what; so I did, I agreed. The meeting was brief; she basically made fun of my responses. She was pinched. She seemed threatened – especially every time she minimized my experience. She made a point of reiterating on like 4 occasions that it was likely I wouldn’t “work the floor” (you start as a busser, expo, take some tests, suck up to the floor manager – I know the drill) for what could be months.
Yeah, I get it. I go through the hoops and hopefully make some good money when you’re through. At the end, however, I wasn’t sure if I’d hear back or, if I did, if I’d even make any money being there. There were only 4 front servers, and not a lot of covers, but the menu is smart, the chef seemed to have it together and the press had, thus far, been positive.
I do the right thing. I send the chef a thank you e-mail. 20 minutes later she, the FOH manager, calls me back and schedules a 2nd interview. We’ll see how this one goes.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
One . Two . Three . Fuck me .
Wellie-well girls and boys I completed a harrowing series of interviews the other day equally about 5.5 hours of my life but if you count phone calls, transportation, preparation, and the all-dreaded trips to Kinkos; in addition to bitching, lamenting, wondering, wishing and a myriad of other bullshit -- not too mention my man's contribution in all this (see below)-- it is way closer to about 50 hours. That’s a week’s pay. Pay me mother fuckers, pay me now.
I was reluctant to post the details of my experience for fear that it may haunt me, that someone would discover it . . . and then I decided I didn’t fucking care and that I needed to just say my piece. And for me, venting here seemed a good way to get it off my chest and let it go. So here it is: 3 weeks torture for a job I didn’t even get and, apparently, never existed at all.
Interview one:
I met with the GM and we hit it off splendidly. It was a tough interview though I thought I did sportingly well. I was told, after a 2 ½ - 3 hour interview that although he, the GM, wanted me at his location as a restaurant manager it was a possible that I may be considered for a management position at a sister location. This other restaurant, the “fine-dining café,” is nowhere near as established, recognized, nor would it make any kind of stellar addition to my resume. Didn’t matter at the time ‘cuz I was a shoe in . . .
My man was also interviewing at the very same esteemed organization. His interview went equally well and he and the chef (he was interviewing for a sous chef position) scheduled a stage for the next phase of the interview. At the end of the un-paid 14 hour shift during which he prepared 6 courses for the chef and GM, worked the line serving more than 400 guests, and stayed till the bitter end cleaning the line with everyone else, the chef pulled him aside and noted that he could probably secure him 55-60 in salary and to follow up with him in 8-10 days. Which he did, but I’ll get back to that.
The following week I get a call to schedule a second interview. It turns out the operations manager isn’t available but one of the managing owners is so, yet another week later, I meet with one of the owners.
Interview two:
Well, this was my first experience with a power lesbian and I just couldn’t tell if she was made at me, my vagina, my red lips or just the world. Never in my life have I felt such hostility in a frickin’ interview. It felt like her questions were more like accusations. I managed to get her to laugh a few times but I think, in retrospect, she was probably laughing at me. But let’s discuss some of the particulars.
A few times I fell into corporate speak (trying to be truthful but positive) and she'd say stuff like "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" and sometimes she’d just glare and shake her head. Usually I like forthright people but there was just this tone – this clear indignation that I was beneath her and not worthy of her valuable time. If she didn’t want to waste her time maybe she shouldn’t have asked me such stupid fucking questions. Plus there's this whole rich elitist thing.
For example, she asked that if I wanted to live abroad why I didn't just go do it. Like, yeah, I just got all the money and resources to just up and move to Tanzania or something. Sorry, lady, not all of us are born with a silver spoon up our ass. I tried cracking a few jokes and being myself but maybe the bow in my head or my pretty red lips were distracting her. I wanted to kick her in the shins with my new pointy-toed shoes. I felt like I was being bullied.
She asked a bunch of questions that kind of caught me off guard but when she asked who I looked up to (dead or alive) I couldn't think of anyone so I said Martha Stewart. We had this whole weird exchange about her (my be-loved Martha) being a bitch and if I think successful people should be able to treat people however they want to.
"No, of course not" I explained, "but I've never worked for her and, if I did, I guess I'd find out for myself."
Then she asked if I had ever read anything about Ms. Stuart. (Do you like that? I almost made it sound like she was being respectful toward her or something, which she wasn’t.) Anyway, we went back and forth a bit about the merits of Martha, what I had read, and what she –Ms. power-pussy-pants, thought of her. She ended the conversation, lips pursed, hands folded, asserting that she had met her and she was a bitch. My opinion: so fucking what. I didn't say I admired her personality or that I thought she was a contender for Miss Congeniality but what I had said was that I respected her ability to take her passions and create an empire, admired her position as a woman business leader, adored her aesthetic; not one fucking thing about "oh, she's such a nice person." Besides, would people really discuss that if she were a man? I think not. I said something along those lines too but any mention of a man fell on deaf ears. Hmmm, what else?
I made several attempts to lighten the mood. I brought up local cuisine, indigenous foods and preparation, I brought up gator – which she declared was awful and would never be on their menu. (Oh contraire you mean-spirited lesbo, you have gator sausage on your lunch menu!) There was no winning with this woman but I kept my head up and a smile on my face through the entire ordeal.
That said, the interview wasn’t exactly going badly but it wasn’t my best performance. The whole thing felt off – she was just mean. “Well, I gotta go," she said in closing, "some of us have night jobs." What the hell happened? I didn’t know where I stood and then I got to thinking about it: about her, the place, the interview.
Boy, she sure thinks their shit is the best thing next to the universe itself but let me tell you 6.5 million doesn't go far these days I guess because the carpets are in shambles, the offices are smelly run-down holes, the computers archaic, the menu/plate presentations outdated and the kitchen is short on everything from small-wares to developed talent(the chef seems to know his shit but that aside…).
Did I mention they just fired 2 sous because apparently they sent dishes out to the owners "without tasting them first." I'm sure complacency had more to do with it but it got us thinking about what was going on there. We chose the optimistic perspective. Maybe they were looking for a new start? Maybe we were the breath of fresh air they were looking for?
Or not. My man gave the chef a call back to discuss the details of his employment only to discover they “had decided to go a different way.” There was some story about a guy from Florida and an un-opened place in Texas. Who knows? We thought, again, to look at it from a positive point of view. We thought that maybe the owners (though the GM and chef were fine with it) weren’t OK with hiring both of us and they had to choose. That would mean good things for me, right?
In my departure from the second interview I ran into the GM. He looked beaten, exhausted, slumped over in his chair - he might as well have been a cripple; he couldn’t move. He could barely raise his hand to shake mine. His forehead cradled into the palm of his other hand. He'd just finished 350 covers for lunch and was trying to gear up for dinner. He was clearly short-handed and looked at me as if I represented some glimmer of hope. I thought well, at least I had him on my side.
I went from being totally excited about working there to wondering what the hell I was thinking. I'd been warned they'd work me to death but I was up to the challenge - I wanted to work there. I wanted to take over their training and development (their gal was leaving in a few months) and I knew I was as good if not better than the nearly all-man team they already had. I wanted to add them to my resume. I could suck it up for a year or 2 or 5 if need be. So I waited for the next call.
Interview 3:
Showing up late and departing in just over an hour this round-bellied suit probably hadn’t seen the floor (and I mean dining room here) in the last 10 years of his 20 year tenure there. The operation manager started out pleasant enough but blindsided me about 2/3rd the way into the interview when he stated “there are no opening here.” He then asked, “has the hotel contacted you?”
My head imploded, my mouth agape. What just happened? I had specifically asked Ms. tarty-twat if I was interviewing for a position here or at the sister restaurant and she said sternly, “well, if you were interviewing for a position there you’d be over there interviewing.” OK, that seemed conclusive enough but why then am I here now, here at the place I had applied to, for the position that was posted, interviewing with the folks that managed this location. What the fuck is going on?
I was informed that he had forwarded my resume and I should be hearing from someone. I kind of got the feeling it was sort of a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” kind of situation - I could not get off property fast enough. I was pissed and now, 2 days later, I think I got the brush off too. So what was the last interview even about?
The ad for the other place has since been removed and I haven’t heard from anyone. I doubt I will hear from them again. And I doubt I care despite desperately needing a job – and one I had hoped would add to my resume in addition to my wallet – I was certainly less than thrilled to be working for this so-called reputable place for this long-standing family run restaurant. I’d love to say fuck them, their loss (and it is) but what short of throwing a temper tantrum am I to do? Well, now that I’ve purged I think I’ll move on and just chalk it up to another fucking thing I don’t get about New Orleans.
I was reluctant to post the details of my experience for fear that it may haunt me, that someone would discover it . . . and then I decided I didn’t fucking care and that I needed to just say my piece. And for me, venting here seemed a good way to get it off my chest and let it go. So here it is: 3 weeks torture for a job I didn’t even get and, apparently, never existed at all.
Interview one:
I met with the GM and we hit it off splendidly. It was a tough interview though I thought I did sportingly well. I was told, after a 2 ½ - 3 hour interview that although he, the GM, wanted me at his location as a restaurant manager it was a possible that I may be considered for a management position at a sister location. This other restaurant, the “fine-dining café,” is nowhere near as established, recognized, nor would it make any kind of stellar addition to my resume. Didn’t matter at the time ‘cuz I was a shoe in . . .
My man was also interviewing at the very same esteemed organization. His interview went equally well and he and the chef (he was interviewing for a sous chef position) scheduled a stage for the next phase of the interview. At the end of the un-paid 14 hour shift during which he prepared 6 courses for the chef and GM, worked the line serving more than 400 guests, and stayed till the bitter end cleaning the line with everyone else, the chef pulled him aside and noted that he could probably secure him 55-60 in salary and to follow up with him in 8-10 days. Which he did, but I’ll get back to that.
The following week I get a call to schedule a second interview. It turns out the operations manager isn’t available but one of the managing owners is so, yet another week later, I meet with one of the owners.
Interview two:
Well, this was my first experience with a power lesbian and I just couldn’t tell if she was made at me, my vagina, my red lips or just the world. Never in my life have I felt such hostility in a frickin’ interview. It felt like her questions were more like accusations. I managed to get her to laugh a few times but I think, in retrospect, she was probably laughing at me. But let’s discuss some of the particulars.
A few times I fell into corporate speak (trying to be truthful but positive) and she'd say stuff like "what the hell is that supposed to mean?" and sometimes she’d just glare and shake her head. Usually I like forthright people but there was just this tone – this clear indignation that I was beneath her and not worthy of her valuable time. If she didn’t want to waste her time maybe she shouldn’t have asked me such stupid fucking questions. Plus there's this whole rich elitist thing.
For example, she asked that if I wanted to live abroad why I didn't just go do it. Like, yeah, I just got all the money and resources to just up and move to Tanzania or something. Sorry, lady, not all of us are born with a silver spoon up our ass. I tried cracking a few jokes and being myself but maybe the bow in my head or my pretty red lips were distracting her. I wanted to kick her in the shins with my new pointy-toed shoes. I felt like I was being bullied.
She asked a bunch of questions that kind of caught me off guard but when she asked who I looked up to (dead or alive) I couldn't think of anyone so I said Martha Stewart. We had this whole weird exchange about her (my be-loved Martha) being a bitch and if I think successful people should be able to treat people however they want to.
"No, of course not" I explained, "but I've never worked for her and, if I did, I guess I'd find out for myself."
Then she asked if I had ever read anything about Ms. Stuart. (Do you like that? I almost made it sound like she was being respectful toward her or something, which she wasn’t.) Anyway, we went back and forth a bit about the merits of Martha, what I had read, and what she –Ms. power-pussy-pants, thought of her. She ended the conversation, lips pursed, hands folded, asserting that she had met her and she was a bitch. My opinion: so fucking what. I didn't say I admired her personality or that I thought she was a contender for Miss Congeniality but what I had said was that I respected her ability to take her passions and create an empire, admired her position as a woman business leader, adored her aesthetic; not one fucking thing about "oh, she's such a nice person." Besides, would people really discuss that if she were a man? I think not. I said something along those lines too but any mention of a man fell on deaf ears. Hmmm, what else?
I made several attempts to lighten the mood. I brought up local cuisine, indigenous foods and preparation, I brought up gator – which she declared was awful and would never be on their menu. (Oh contraire you mean-spirited lesbo, you have gator sausage on your lunch menu!) There was no winning with this woman but I kept my head up and a smile on my face through the entire ordeal.
That said, the interview wasn’t exactly going badly but it wasn’t my best performance. The whole thing felt off – she was just mean. “Well, I gotta go," she said in closing, "some of us have night jobs." What the hell happened? I didn’t know where I stood and then I got to thinking about it: about her, the place, the interview.
Boy, she sure thinks their shit is the best thing next to the universe itself but let me tell you 6.5 million doesn't go far these days I guess because the carpets are in shambles, the offices are smelly run-down holes, the computers archaic, the menu/plate presentations outdated and the kitchen is short on everything from small-wares to developed talent(the chef seems to know his shit but that aside…).
Did I mention they just fired 2 sous because apparently they sent dishes out to the owners "without tasting them first." I'm sure complacency had more to do with it but it got us thinking about what was going on there. We chose the optimistic perspective. Maybe they were looking for a new start? Maybe we were the breath of fresh air they were looking for?
Or not. My man gave the chef a call back to discuss the details of his employment only to discover they “had decided to go a different way.” There was some story about a guy from Florida and an un-opened place in Texas. Who knows? We thought, again, to look at it from a positive point of view. We thought that maybe the owners (though the GM and chef were fine with it) weren’t OK with hiring both of us and they had to choose. That would mean good things for me, right?
In my departure from the second interview I ran into the GM. He looked beaten, exhausted, slumped over in his chair - he might as well have been a cripple; he couldn’t move. He could barely raise his hand to shake mine. His forehead cradled into the palm of his other hand. He'd just finished 350 covers for lunch and was trying to gear up for dinner. He was clearly short-handed and looked at me as if I represented some glimmer of hope. I thought well, at least I had him on my side.
I went from being totally excited about working there to wondering what the hell I was thinking. I'd been warned they'd work me to death but I was up to the challenge - I wanted to work there. I wanted to take over their training and development (their gal was leaving in a few months) and I knew I was as good if not better than the nearly all-man team they already had. I wanted to add them to my resume. I could suck it up for a year or 2 or 5 if need be. So I waited for the next call.
Interview 3:
Showing up late and departing in just over an hour this round-bellied suit probably hadn’t seen the floor (and I mean dining room here) in the last 10 years of his 20 year tenure there. The operation manager started out pleasant enough but blindsided me about 2/3rd the way into the interview when he stated “there are no opening here.” He then asked, “has the hotel contacted you?”
My head imploded, my mouth agape. What just happened? I had specifically asked Ms. tarty-twat if I was interviewing for a position here or at the sister restaurant and she said sternly, “well, if you were interviewing for a position there you’d be over there interviewing.” OK, that seemed conclusive enough but why then am I here now, here at the place I had applied to, for the position that was posted, interviewing with the folks that managed this location. What the fuck is going on?
I was informed that he had forwarded my resume and I should be hearing from someone. I kind of got the feeling it was sort of a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” kind of situation - I could not get off property fast enough. I was pissed and now, 2 days later, I think I got the brush off too. So what was the last interview even about?
The ad for the other place has since been removed and I haven’t heard from anyone. I doubt I will hear from them again. And I doubt I care despite desperately needing a job – and one I had hoped would add to my resume in addition to my wallet – I was certainly less than thrilled to be working for this so-called reputable place for this long-standing family run restaurant. I’d love to say fuck them, their loss (and it is) but what short of throwing a temper tantrum am I to do? Well, now that I’ve purged I think I’ll move on and just chalk it up to another fucking thing I don’t get about New Orleans.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Promises, Promises
Ok, so my last post was a bit lazy and I’ve hardly been much of a contributor to this site as of late (or ever) but, hey, I’m trying. Of course I’m trying at a lot of things these days and in many, many cases failing miserably. I’m always “trying” to learn, to grow, to organize my to do list, be more responsible, to do all sorts of shit . . . and every so often some cliché landmark arises and I deem some sort of “all new me” or a “new start” or some other sort of frickin’ bullshit that’s supposed to mark the calendar as some sort of new beginning. I’ve been particularly full of shit for the last year or so and as if moving 1500 miles away wasn’t enough I thought it best to accompany it with an entire litany of other “new me” sort of crap. Ya know what I’m talking about, the kind of shit you’re always promising yourself on New Year’s Eve: quit smoking, learn French, lose weight . . . I’ve done all those things but it is important to note that I’ve forgotten most of my French, gained back the weight I’ve lost and promised for like 5 years to quit smoking before I actually quit smoking. So, here I am again with another passing b-day and I declare an all new beginning…. Excuse me, I’ll be right back, I gotta go refill my drinkie drink. Oh, Mr., could you fetch me a (ice tinkling against an empty glass) … Well, he is good for some things.
OK, drink refilled so you can see how well this new me bullshit is going.
The day of my birthday was relatively low-key but not bad. I stayed up till about 5 am and swore I’d get up early regardless for the “new beginning.” 11:30 rolled around and the 30 minute victory of the earlier- than-usual rise was quickly dismissed by some sound conclusion that I was entitled to a “b-day week transition.” Funny, right? Typical is more like it. I lazily returned to bed and, another hour later, started the day with a bloody. Not even really needed as a hang-over cure but a bloody seems less AL-coholic then starting the day with a straight up martini. But I digress.
Thus far the only thing I’ve done differently was walk about 3 more miles than usual on Saturday (note: a walk through the grocery store or to the nearest bar was about the typical work-out routine) but that was only in between restaurants, drinks, and a show to a beloved fowl-mouth comedian. So I guess the only difference was that I walked instead of scooted on the Vespa to said destinations. With one exception; we scooted to Domenica (Besh’s new hot spot) late Saturday so we could feed our faces moments before the kitchen closed. By the way, WTF is up with a 10:30 close time for a new fancy pants restaurant in NOLA? Seriously, WTF!!!
So, face filled with pasta, pizza, and wine we paid the exorbitant tab and headed home to walk the .9 miles to the bar to meet friends for a b-day celebration. Now it’s 1:30 and I left (walking home alone - w/o a stumble I might add) before even ordering a drink – or my friends showing up – because I was done. A triumph, right? Nope, just actually too tired. Victory at last? Not even kind of.
So here it is Sunday night (now nearly Monday morning) and it’s what’s become the day of reflection wherein I think about making another new start. Mondays are the start of a new week, maybe a new beginning? Yeah, yeah, I say it every other fucking week. I got an important interview tomorrow. I may, or may not nail it. I may, or may not care. I may or may not change. But not unlike every other week, birthday, New Year’s Eve I’ll promise to try. Tomorrow. But for now, I got 9 more minutes to refill my drink and do something useless.
Cheers.
OK, drink refilled so you can see how well this new me bullshit is going.
The day of my birthday was relatively low-key but not bad. I stayed up till about 5 am and swore I’d get up early regardless for the “new beginning.” 11:30 rolled around and the 30 minute victory of the earlier- than-usual rise was quickly dismissed by some sound conclusion that I was entitled to a “b-day week transition.” Funny, right? Typical is more like it. I lazily returned to bed and, another hour later, started the day with a bloody. Not even really needed as a hang-over cure but a bloody seems less AL-coholic then starting the day with a straight up martini. But I digress.
Thus far the only thing I’ve done differently was walk about 3 more miles than usual on Saturday (note: a walk through the grocery store or to the nearest bar was about the typical work-out routine) but that was only in between restaurants, drinks, and a show to a beloved fowl-mouth comedian. So I guess the only difference was that I walked instead of scooted on the Vespa to said destinations. With one exception; we scooted to Domenica (Besh’s new hot spot) late Saturday so we could feed our faces moments before the kitchen closed. By the way, WTF is up with a 10:30 close time for a new fancy pants restaurant in NOLA? Seriously, WTF!!!
So, face filled with pasta, pizza, and wine we paid the exorbitant tab and headed home to walk the .9 miles to the bar to meet friends for a b-day celebration. Now it’s 1:30 and I left (walking home alone - w/o a stumble I might add) before even ordering a drink – or my friends showing up – because I was done. A triumph, right? Nope, just actually too tired. Victory at last? Not even kind of.
So here it is Sunday night (now nearly Monday morning) and it’s what’s become the day of reflection wherein I think about making another new start. Mondays are the start of a new week, maybe a new beginning? Yeah, yeah, I say it every other fucking week. I got an important interview tomorrow. I may, or may not nail it. I may, or may not care. I may or may not change. But not unlike every other week, birthday, New Year’s Eve I’ll promise to try. Tomorrow. But for now, I got 9 more minutes to refill my drink and do something useless.
Cheers.
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