Writing a Resume
I’m 25. I’ve been working at the same soul-numbing job for the past six years of my life. I finally grew tired of wearing khakis and being taken advantage of when I put in my two weeks notice a few days ago.
25. I’ve been wearing an apron and sarcastically calling seven year old kids “Sir” and “Miss” until recently, when I realized that it wasn’t that sarcastic.
25. My resume’s education section would read:
Graduated from Westland High school in 2007
Took one semester at Columbus State Community college then discovered my love for marijuana and comedy.
But hey, I took an acting class at Second City in Chicago last summer.
I’m not bitter. I’m moving forward. It’s necessary. It’s about survival. It’s about moving into adulthood only seven years later than I should have.
It’s very strange though. When you spend all of your time trying to find the funny in everything. That minor thing. That tiny flaw that you can stretch into a whole joke. You do it with everything.
Work days. Street Signs. The government. Yourself.
It’s tough for me to suddenly switch gears and learn how to speak highly about myself in the pursuit of my own betterment,
Last night was the last night in town for a lot of great comics. And maybe some of them will move to Columbus. We just lost a pair of mediocre ones here.
In the meantime, I’ll try to suppress the overwhelming urge to put myself down better than anyone else can. An ideal that’s been instilled in me since the first grade.
Try to get a grown-up job. Try to live a grown-up life.
I’m 25 years old. It’s not the end of my life, but it’s the end of stagnation. The end of finding comfort in the situation I’m in and convincing myself that it’s okay enough to sustain for six years.
I’m a goofy piece of referential shit who looks like Paul Giamatti and Steve from Blues Clues had a really weird night in Tom Green’s basement… probably drinking Jameson.
But that doesn’t mean I’m a failure. It just means whatever realism my stubborn brain can subscribe to is entertaining and self-deprecating.
I was going to end this post with a Ferris Bueller quote, but I feel like the post itself already makes a pretty convincing argument for me being a hack.