At first, there is that electricity in the air. I can taste it. My ears are buzzing. I've got pins and needles in my sweaty palms. I am ready to commit myself to a career and the possibilities are endless. Work for the CIA? Maybe. How about on Wall Street? I can do it. Dream the impossible dream all you dreamers! My heart rate leaps as I set off upon my glorious and mysterious journey. I have the unexplainable urge to purchase a blue dress and red shoes. And a little dog too.
Google. Get ready for me.
"new york city jobs".
Silly Google. Do you even have to ask? Of course. I'm Feeling Lucky. Well, do you? Punk?
There's millions of postings. I don't want to be a friggin' Policy Analyst. If the word "anal" is anywhere in my job title, count me out... unless it was Canal Gondolier. I've gotta say, that'd be awesome.
I scroll through the hundreds of pages of purgatorial descriptions: Marketing Consultant. Director of Sales. HVAC Technician. Message Therapist. Assistant to the Director of Public Relations...
I'm writing to my Senator. Forget the phonebooks, I've got some more creative ammunition Mrs. Clinton. Filibusters will never be the same.
I'm not in the mood to continue this fruitless search. This is about as enjoyable as typing "anal" into Google. NO. I'm not Feeling Lucky.