Misfires

This is an egg, of sorts.

"deflated egg"

You had one job, chicken.

Its shell is intact, it contains both yolk and albumen; it’s just…squishy.

But its existence comforts me: hens, as you may or may not know, don’t do a whole lot besides eat, excrete, and evacuate eggs from their oviducts. Moreover, from the perspective of livestock husbandry, they have one job.

And sometimes they get it wrong. Not often, but occasionally.

And you have no idea how much of a relief that is, to me at least — I may not be an abject failure, but I mess up a lot.

As the season turns, I reflect on my summer, which included (but was not limited to):

1. A pilonidal cyst, which hurled me headlong into raving, snarling madness born of intense physical pain; I have relatively few memories of this period, only flashbacks in which I don’t recognize myself or my actions.

2. A client who hired me, then fired me, and then didn’t pay me.

I’ve had several trusted friends and associates tell me that this was not my fault, that — as they say — b!+c#3$ be crazy; however, not including a kill fee in the contract was sheer idiocy on my part. And thus down the drain goes a month of hard f*cking work, a generous portion of my sanity, and time that could have been spent on — oh, about a million other, more important things. *sigh* Live and learn.

3. Bombing the GRE, which may be a dealbreaker, ladies, in terms of ongoing professional development — I was considering transitioning from Night School: The Certificate to Night School: The Degree, because I am trying to remain employable in a world that assumes I’m irrelevant due to Google’s existence and also because my employer would subsidize a substantial portion of the cost.

I’m not sure what this means — I more than meet all other requirements, but standardized testing is a multi-billion dollar industry that has a disproportionate amount of influence on university admissions, so I couldn’t begin to speculate on my chances. One option, according to the program’s website, is to pony up a couple hundred more dollars and submit once more to the battery, but — in addition to not really having money lying around, collecting dust — I’m not sure it would prove anything other than the fact that I can wield cash as a weapon in a personal crusade for higher scores.
I’ve asked a few people, all of whom say “Go for it!” but I’m hesitant to go through the process unless the odds are in my favor — less for my sake (I could stuff a mattress with rejections of every conceivable type) but because other people are involved, people who’d have to write recommendations, for example. People who’d have to process all the paperwork, from transcripts to residency forms. It’s not a solo act, this admissions process. I don’t like wasting people’s time.

UPDATE: Also, I completely bombed a project for Night School, Part 3. Want to know how I did it? Generally speaking, by being stupid; more specifically, by somehow failing to see and comprehend the OTHER 60% of the assignment-as-written. Although this probably not what they were referring to at the time, every bus driver employed by DATA is absolutely correct: I am truly the “dumbest cracker alive.”

Furthermore, I am saddled with “partners” who are unreachable for days at a time, typically until mid-afternoon on the day the assignment is due, at which point I’ve panicked and done most of the work myself.

4. Pay-for-Play Background Artistry, which is what I’ve been calling “weddings” ever since I began to realize that only a tiny minority of the people who invite me to participate in their celebrations are actually inviting me-for-me, e.g. because they care about me or enjoy my company or what-have-you.

Rather, I seem to be generic crowd-fill — like, SOMEONE needs to be in the background sipping fizz from sparkling stemware or distracting someone’s four-year-old niece with straw-paper origami, because it makes events look more festive. So why not me? I own what my mother would call “church clothes,” I can smile nicely if necessary, and I can sit through any kind of formal ceremony or ritual — sacred, profane, or anywhere in-between — with a straight face. That is threshold for civilized behavior. The only thing I don’t do is speak Simlish.

Actually, I’ve noticed that since joining forces with My Fella, these kind of events have increased in frequency. And I’ve got theories about this, NONE of which cast humanity in a decent light.*

5. Losing my glasses, which — if nothing else — ought to make you appreciate all those footnotes.

 

*Here are several:
a.) Because I am a hoyden, entering into a committed union with another person — particularly a professional cishet man — somehow made me acceptable to polite society. When I was single, people assumed I was a witch who would curse their special event with my mere presence, so I never got invited to anything. And I kind of preferred that. But as soon as I became a partnered individual? Suddenly, people’s opinions on how I ought to be living my life dried up and I was able to get on with my existence without a lot of interference. It’s not what I would have expected, actually. How on Earth can there be MORE personal freedom in marriage?
b.) Stock-Photo Syndrome: With a handful of exceptions, most couples I see could be cousins; they look that much alike. Whereas My Fella and I could sell our images to Shutterstock — which, by the way, is going to REALLY confuse will really confuse our future alien overlords: “Wait, I’ve seen their Internet — where are all the talking cats and the racial harmony?”
Anyway, we do not resemble each other in the least: he looks indefinably  but indisputably “ethnic,” whereas I’m basically a freckled Euro-mutt with a rich seam of ???o_O??? running through my veins (I’d ask Great-Aunt Betty, sole custodian of our Terrible Family Secret, but I do believe she will take that particular revelation with her to the grave.) So I suppose I’m white with a twist, kind of like soft serve? Anyway, I sometimes wonder if we’re unwittingly reinforcing folks’ progressive bona fides when we attend such functions.
It may also be related to all the “So when are you two going to start making adorable babies?” questions we’ve been inexpertly fielding since, I $#!+ you not, 10 seconds after we tied the knot. (Answer: probably sooner if we didn’t have to shell out for so many plane tickets and hotel rooms.) And the way people in supermarkets try to hand us adorable cafe au lait toddlers, asking “Is this your little one?”
Look, I don’t mind what you’re doing, but I do know what you’re doing.

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