No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2001-10-01 - 10:07 p.m.

Wherein our spunky young hero equates a job hunt with 1001 Arabian Nights, and promises his virtual harem Secret Decoder Rings.

Gonna hafta be a quick one tonight, kiddies, or I'll be late for my midnight cross-country motorcycle ride with Lisa Loeb.

A guy can dream can't he?

And I will. Soon. When I go to bed.

Which I will do. Soon.

I had some point when I started this and now I've lost it completely.

Oh, wait, there it is.

Tonight I updated my resume and sent it off, with a wing and a prayer, across the great wasteland that is the internet, in the hopes that somewhere out there it would find the shining jewel of a new and better job, and deliver it back to my doorstep, like some obedient Ifreet from one of Sheherezhade's (sp?) tales.

<Butthead-Voice>Huh-huh. He said wasted.</Butthead-Voice>

On another note, today (or yesterday, or sometime this weekend) the j$ fan club gained its fourth official member (and if you're an unofficial member, shame on you. You don't want to miss out on your chance at getting your official j$ Secret Decoder Ring, do you?). All chicks.

Yeah, I'm all about the ladies. And the ladies? They all about me.

And I'm going to shut up now before I embarrass myself any more.

Wish me luck on the job front.

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