I've got cash. Cultural Capital. Dig? All I want is a motherfucking job in NYC. I'll get coffee. Smile through a tirade. Fax. and Refax. Hustle across town on my own dime, even though I rolled a bum for my morning Balducci biscotti money.
I liken the whole media job application process with totalitarian calistenics. Up. Down. Left. Right. In. Out. And so on. It's maddening. The kind of precision these people are looking for is like 1 in 10000. I am not a computer. I am human who knows her head from her ass, that should be good enough damn it. Ok, so it wouldn't kill me to think things through a bit, but speed has always been my ally. I don't mean the shit all people in management have dabbled with on the weekends. I mean my mercurial ability to move. That mercurial ablity in me exists on numersous levels. Speed to me is instinct. Speed however doesn't make for good love making. God, I just want a job in nyc before I move up there. Fuck the market, fuck the CFR, fuck world politics! This my life. The may be the first and last time I am a sentient being on planet Earth. So excuse me, if I want it my way. I have got to keep on trucking. Goddamn G+J. Goddamn Black Book. I'm going to write in NYC. I've got cash.
This venom comes from desperation. I said speed was an ally, but not an easily subdued one.