hi
how are you ? friend
i have good news for you
very good place for us
just do it now .
sure you will like
regards
Every so often I'll cock an eyebrow, raise my pinky, sip some kind of douche-baggy drink (oh, I don't know, wine or something. As a college student living hand-to-mouth, pretty much anything that I can't get free at a rager is douche-baggy), and reference "my work". I always say "my work" in a sort of nasally self-absorbed voice. This is me pretending to be someone successful.
These Every-so-oftens generally come out in occasions involving my sister. My sister has the great fortune of actually BEING someone successful. It's really quite a pain. I won't go into too many details, but she's about to receive her masters degree from Very Well Known West Coast Top Three University, where she also received her undergraduate degree in electrical engineering. She has a job offer from Goldman Sachs in Japan taking a happy nap on the table, and yesterday night she applied for an internship at A Major Company nearby her university. You know, just for something to do during the year, since she's bored with the Well Known Lab she's been doing independent research for. Yes, I do spend time contemplating just offing myself and being done with it. ANYWAY, yesterday she applied for an internship. She heard back in ONE DAY. One day.
I just want, for knowledge of the general public, to describe my personal, fruitless internship search last winter: apply. wait years. years. years. don't hear back. ever.
yep.
Naturally, at times like these I am driven by a mad, rabidly desperate, insanity-driven need to save face. Which means I butt in and reference "my work". "My work," in reality, is an amorphous nonexistent blob of I'm-not-exactly-sure-what-but-I-plan-to-do-it-when-I-know-how. When I talk about it to people, I gloss myself over an Ahhh-tiste. Truth be told, I've never actually taken an art class. You might be starting to understand why I have trouble finding jobs.
Meh. The good news is that I'm jumping the gun a bit here. I still have a few months left before I have to *actually* begin searching for the beginnings of a life. Other good news is that I'm determined to spend this year building my reel and having something solid to show for myself. I get to direct in the winter, which could be AWESOME but could also be absofuckingtotalutelyTERRIBLE. The former, I hope, with my hands clasped together in prayer and eyes rolled ceiling-wards in desperate plea. In any case, it'll give me something actually existent with my name on it. Hurm hurm hurm nurm.
UNRELATED: new Gorillaz album? SO GOOD.
I am newly inspired. Or desperate, but "inspired" sounds so much more positive, so I'm going to stick with that. Gotta keep a chin up in these dark times.
I just read this article a couple days ago, and it hit a bit close to home. So close to home, the house next door collapsed inwards on itself and the shrieks of my neighbors, trapped beneath the metaphorical wreckage, echoed disturbingly in my poor 20-somethin' ears. Better them than me, I guess.
I'm about ten months away from being the very archetype of specimen this article studies. I'm mentally preparing myself for what will no doubt be a long stage of camping out in my childhood bedroom. Which really isn't much different from my bedroom in my college apartment--both are covered in Star Wars posters and concert fliers, adorned with lego dinosaurs and a spattering of science fiction novels. Jeebus, I'm still doggy-paddling the shallow end and I'm about to be tipped head first into the grown-up pool.
As someone who has a long history of exploding basically every food I try to cook (this is not an exaggeration, I have battle scars from showdowns between me and the Cooking), hides piles of dirty mugs and bowls in my room so my roommates think I only have the Full Sink Of Dishes to do, and sleeps through my roommates banging on my door because my alarm clock has been blaring for hours, actually having to make my own money and, I don't know LIVE, scares the living fuck out of me. Yeah, you heard me right: the living fuck. I'm going to have to resort to necrophilia just to get through "emerging adulthood" (I JUST TYPED IN "ADOLESCENCE" INSTEAD OF "ADULTHOOD", AND NOW MY SUBCONSCIOUS IS PANIC-VOMITING EVERYWHERE, GROAAAGHH).
Ohkay, this was supposed to calm me down, not freak me out.
Anyway, as a currently aspiring independent (or whatever) animator, I'm sort of shaking in my affordable-yet-stylish shoes. I spend a lot of time watching TV and consequently a lot of time not-really-watching commercials, and let me tell you, my biggest fear is that I'm going to end up spending my life animating shit like the Nasonex commercial. Have you ever seen that commercial? I don't want to make the Nasonex bee! Imagine the conversation years from now, being introduced to people at whatever hobnobbing parties adults go to.
"This is my friend Nandita, she uh... she animates."
"Oh yeah? That's fun! What kind of things do you animate?"
"Oh uh, you know. The Nasonex Commercial..."
"Oh. Well...uh, that's cool, I guess!"
"I think Antonio Banderas may have voiced the bee...that's...kind of...cool... maybe?"
"Erm."
Grim. So grim. And what happens when my friends get tired of this pathetic exchange and shorten it up:
"This is my friend Nandita, she animated the Nasonex Commercial and now she's jobless and looking!"
...Yep.
What's WORSE, I don't even currently have the skills required to make that effing commercial. Fuck man! I'm fucked! Fuck!
I meant to end on a positive note, just like I opened, but it's buried way down in the mental landfill right now. Next time. Next time there will be fist pumps and bro-y high fives and chest bumps and whatever goes on when someone does a keg stand. But right now I'm going to go distract myself. By watching some more TV. Yeah, I know, I know I lead suuuuch a productive life. Bloogh.
