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'My Corduroyed Life' - Mark A's Journal
As you may have guessed, I didn't get that job I wanted. The fact I actually missed a day without blithering crapola on this thing was probably a dead giveaway. I was utterly, utterly gutted and frustrated for a long while, but an evening of pizza, chocolate and obscure film followed by a jolly good night out on the town the night after (avec mucho booze*) has restored my happy go-lucky blase attitude to everything...
However, I *was* a bit of a depressed, OTT queeny (even more so than usual) mess on Thurs when they phoned me at work. All I wanted that eve was a bit of peace and quiet with my own company and comfort food and strange cinema. People respected that (whcih I greatly appreciated), and I got over it.
However, I do still feel the need to rant a little bit. I was their second choice. Now, you might thank that that's a really positive thing, but when it's the fourth interview in a row that I've been told that, you might forgive my cynicism. Is 'you were our second choice' just an interviewer's way of saying fuck off? I can't help feeling that it's a way of making failures feel good and they say it to everyone who doesn't get the job, and all I can say is bollocks: I'd prefer to be kicked to the floor as long as I learn what I can do better next time to not be 'second best'. It's so frustrating. Perhaps I sound like a whiney child, but I'd prefer to be shit over being second best. It frustrates me so much that 'the other candidate had more experience', because there is FUCK ALL that you can do about it. Why d'you think I applied for the post?! There's no more valid experience to be gained in my current role! Gah! Always the Bridesmaid, never the Bride.
While I'm on, I think I'll state my genuine theory/ gripe. I live in Manchester. Manchester is cool, hip, and the place to be for young people (especially gay people). A hell of a lot of people want to stay in (me included) or move to Manchester. As such, competition for jobs (especially decent ones) is gonna be fucking harsh. I'm just bitter about the fact that if I was applying for equivalent jobs in shit places, I'd already be there. What chance do I have when Mr(s) Perfect is applying for every job I want in Manc? I want to scream! But I tell you something: there is no way in hell I'm leaving Manchester...
Despite the horrendous bitterness of the last two paragraphs, I want to tell you about something that raised my spirits more than I thought possible. My friend from work, Farhat, put everything into perspective for me on Friday. She'd noticed how upset/ moody/ miserable I was on Thursday due to not getting the job, hell, everyone had, but she decided to do something. Friday morning, I arrived at the Careers Service to be greeted by Farhat: 'I've bought you something to cheer you up'. She then presented me with the cutest little teddy bear I've ever seen: 'to cheer you up'. At this point, I was so genuinely touched by her thoughtfulness that I had to really did have to hold back the tears. The fact she cared so much about me and the way I was feeling meant more to me than I can express in type. It all suddenly dawned upon me: I may not have the fantastic high-flying job I want that impresses all my friend and makes my dad proud to talk about me (as opposed to a vague mentionings that I work for a Uni), but fuck me, I have a HELL of a good life. I'm living where I want to live and have more good friends around me than anyone deserves. I really *do* have it good.
Have fun,
M
* For those who don't know that I'm not thick, the use of Spanish, French and English in a three word phrase is quite deliberate and just the way I talk in a really weird way. I only speak two languages: English and Bad English... any interloping words from other languages are used because I think they're cool... so there.
Current mood: Alcoholically enhanced happy.
Current music: My Life Story - 12 Reasons why I Love Her.
Someone asked me if I was gay yesterday, and I lied.
I have ambivolent feelings about it. Please let me explain...
I'm gay. It's obviously a very important part of who I am. I like being gay, and I'm not ashamed of it.
I don't like pain, like my teeth, hate homophobic attacks, and don't fancy getting beat up.
These two important parts of my life clashed on the bus home on Saturday night.
As you do, I got on the bus home and started reading my book (currently 'Treasure Island' by Robert Louis Stevenson). Suddenly, my blissful, peaceful, happy isolationism was interrupted by a random drunk guy talking shit at me. I'm not going to stereotype or judge here, and as such, his appearance is irrelevant. Sat drinking his Skol Super Strength and failing to sit up straight, he spouted crap. To be honest, beyond the 'Fuck off, I wanna read my book' factor, I don't really mind nutters on the bus as long as they're harmless. I live in Eccles, I've kinda got used to them. However, this one was different. After telling me that he is drunk every night, beat up his girlfriend for cheating on him, wants to slit his father's throat for being a 'cunt', and got 'put down' for robbing banks, I was a bit scared by him. He then started talking about how he'd love to kill every 'fucking Paki', and 'fuck up' the Police. I can normally cope with this kinda shit with nods and 'yeah's. However, out of the blue after tirading me about 'fucking Pakis' and 'fucking Pigs' in Oldham, I was scared of him. He then asked me if I was 'queer'. I said 'No'. I'm not proud of it, but I lied about my sexuality. I prevented a potentially hostile and violent situation by lying... a legitimate reason surely? So why do I feel so trecherous?
I do feel ashamed. 'Fucking Pakis' can't hide who they are from people like him, but 'queers' can, and I did. I lied to save myself from a potential beating. An Asian guy couldn't have done that. I could beat myself up over it, or I could mention that fact that it's that twat of a guy that's in the wrong! Wanker.
I don't even want to discuss it any more actually. I almost feel ashamed that I can hide the part of who I am from potential bastards who attack you for who you are and other minority groups can't.
I'm gonna go now.
Mark
Current mood: Kinda disillusioned.
Current music: It Gets Me Through by Ozzy Osbourne.
http://www.splog.dsl.pipex.com/blog/
This is Mojo's blog. I know Mojo from Quest, possibly not as well as some, but he's a decent guy.
Was randomly reading his blog (as you do), and am blatently going to nick his idea on blogging about dreams...
I am really rather jealous of Mojo: he remembers dreams. I next to never remember dreams: I wake up and that's it, nothing. It never, ever happens: hasn't for years. I wonder if it's abnormal...
I can remember a grand total of FOUR dreams ever, but they were SO vivid it's mad. So here they are:
1) I joined Dad's Army (yes, the one in the telly programme) and was driving around in an old Morris Minor on a mission to save Wolverhampton. - Surreal one from when I was about 14.
2) I was being chased by Freddy Krueger (Nightmare on Elm Street guy), and when he caught me he stabbed me. At that point I woke up. - Childhood Nightmare.
3) I dreamt I'd woken up, and there was a guy in my flat. He started seducing me while I pretended to be asleep but then strangled me. - About two years ago, and it really shook me up 'cos I never remember dreams and as such I thought it was real.
4) I was a contestant on Krack A Jack and put my hand in one of those feely activity things and it got bit by a shark. - Childhood nightmare.
Three nightmares and joining Dad's Army... what the hell does that say about me?!
To all of you that can remember dreams, I send a very big jealous scowl...
Have fun,
M
Current mood: Mmmkay.
Current music: I've been downloading remixes of Street Fighter II themes....