Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Picking Shrapnel Out of My Socks

Had another meeting with Big Media today. Oh, fickle Mr. Big. I went in fully primped (but not too primped; I wanted them to know I was serious and I didn't just want the salary for my wardrobe) and good-smelling, with a dozen story ideas and what I hoped was a bridal glow of positive energy. I had a good answer formulated for the question I was sure they'd ask, which was "Why did you spend six years freelancing when you could have (should have) been climbing the corporate ladder?" They never asked me, though. They asked me instead if I really, really wanted to work in [insert specific type of media here] and if I had a five-year plan and what did I really feel myself to be, a writer or an editor (you can only pick one). I hated it. Haaaated it. If only I were predisposed to lying, but I literally can't. So I said "writer." That got me some raised eyebrows, since I'm applying for an editing job. Shoot self in foot much? But what they should know is that I am the queen of ideas. Even though, after I spent hours this weekend generating top-drawer ideas for them, they asked to hear specifically "a couple." A COUPLE? How can they possibly get a feel for my genius based on a couple of ideas? And if they overlook the fact that I am the queen of ideas, that's their loss. OK, OK, it's mine too, since I'll be gliding past the three-year mark of not going to the dentist, to say nothing of my horrid glasses.

I'm clearly at that difficult crux of hatred and desperation. Hatred borne of desperation, in fact.

But here, an example of the beauty that can arise from labour discontents.