The Diary Of A Desperate, Unemployed Postgrad


Day 237. The future looks bleak. I woke up to the sound of the four jobs alerts I sent to my phone. They were, once again, no help. I’m still not sure whose job it is to correctly categorize the jobs, but they’re terrible at it. I could organize that stuff. I should have that job. I wonder how much they make…actually, it doesn’t matter.

I burned through three K-cups this morning, diary. Two doesn’t quite make me want to participate in my sad excuse of a life anymore. I sat down and checked my other 18 emails: junk, those Ulta coupons I signed up for when I still used Mom’s credit card and could afford it, and emails from my alma mater wondering if I’m going to sign up for the fall semester or not. Let it go, college. We’ve grown apart, although the further apart we grow, the more I think about coming back and giving it another shot. Then I saw the emails from my student loan provider and the thought of returning left just as quickly as it came. I did get one email gently letting me down, but to be honest, I had already forgotten I even applied for it. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I applied for it three months ago, when my standards were still high. So that’s encouraging.

I put on real pants today. Even though it was only because I was going out in the world to participate in life, I haven’t been this proud of myself in a while. I inevitably saw Whitney, a girl I went to high school with, but whose existence I have since forgotten. While catching up–and by that I mean trying to escape politely–I had to explain for the 2,815,043rd time what I went to school for, what exactly PR is, what I’m doing with my life, and then respond to another, “Oh. Then what do you want to do?” If I get asked a 2,815,044th time, I’ll snap and be on the 6 o’clock news. After reading this diary, though, not a jury in the world would convict me–simply out of pity.

After I came home, I immediately took off my pants and pre-heated the oven for my DiGiorno single, making me painfully aware of how alone I am. While waiting for my pizza to cook, I made my Twitter and Facebook rounds. Oh, look! Another one of my friends got a job. That’s just lovely. I began drinking at 2 p.m. I subsequently applied to sell life insurance. Pantsless and alone, with nothing but rejection and a stuffed-crust pizza, I realized that I had hit rock bottom.

I don’t know how much longer I can go on, diary. It’s not even because I’m going stir-crazy, which I am. But, my grace period for my student loans is over. I need money that I can give away just as soon as it’s directly deposited into my bank account. Is that what being an adult is, diary? Perpetual poverty? Will I ever have a disposable income? Will I ever have an income in general? Answer me, diary! Diary! Diary…?

Unemployed Postgrad

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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