Did I tell you I moved to England?

Well, I did.  In August 2014.  Just a few months ago and let me tell you, it sucks.

so I moved here for love and that part is cool, but I've never lived with a man, and we live in another man, an old white man's, house.  He fucks off for most of the year, but no the less it's his house.

Anyway, today and most days I'm sitting in here by myself watching tv and writing.  And researching jobs and applying to jobs, even got an interview with a bunch of kids.

So my real problem is that sometimes it feels like i have to do bad shit just to feel like I'm a live.  Bad shit as in shit I'm "not supposed to do" according to Ben, but i feel like doing according to me.

like smoke in the house.  now we're going to light a fire later and i was planning on opening the door and airing it out before he snuck up on me and came home.

trapped and busted.

and it does smell like smoke in here, but i like it.  it feels more like i have some space in here even if it's only for a few hours.  it's gross, but so what.  some shit's gross.  i need to be gross.

newlyweds.  we're learning each other and i have to not be so hard on myself.  I'm obedient and must be disobedient to hear myself and do what i want to do.  totally immature, i know, but still necessary.
I vacillate between how I believe I should behave and how I actually feel.  How I want to live.  And I'm resistant to change even though I've been on a constant change arc over the last 2 years... 4 really.  and I'm 40 and figuring that bit out too.

and still unemployed.  still without money and asking myself so many questions about that and myself that i'm often swimming in my own thoughts so deep that i can't see out.

but the one thing that is my favorite part of all of this is that i'm writing again.  and i sound like me.

Dear TV: Stop Making the Blacks the Problems

So I watched the black guy die on The Walking Dead, not as fullfilling as I'd hoped, but satisfying.

This girl sounds like a pompous ass...wait...

I guess I wrote this in my useless Media Crit class in grad school while applying for some fellowship. That teacher was terrible and we approached our Dean about it. Then, for a whole uncomfortable HOUR AND A HALF the teacher wanted to 'talk' to us about what's wrong and then started to cry. That cost me $2500 and I didn't get the fellowship, obviously.

Enjoy:


Charity A. Thomas was born in Washington D.C. and raised on the southside of Chicago. She attended The University of Chicago Laboratory High School where she was an award winning television columnist on the U-High Midway and she discovered her passion for the media and writing. After graduating from Howard University with a BA in Radio/TV/Film (film major/ theater minor), with a semester at Columbia University in New York, she moved back to New York and began working in film production. She worked the grueling hours on idiotic music videos as a production assistant, production coordinator, production manager, wardrobe assistant, 2nd 2nd AD, and make-up “girl”, before settling on being The Art Department Coordinator (caps intentional) on commercials (and the occasional music video because her money tree has yet to come into full bloom).

In 2001, after her roommate and best friend joined a cult leaving her with a multitude of bills during a slow production period, Charity decided to begin graduate school. She expects to graduate in May 2003 with a Masters in Media Studies. With that degree she will become a media critic and the voice of the pseudo disenfranchised group- thinkers. In between all of this excitement, she writes. She’s an eccentric poet (published in AIM Magazine and various small friend run endeavors), an apocalyptic playwright, a brilliant essayist, and… a screenwriter. She’s sure there are going to be very professional, even scholarly, biographies submitted to this fellowship program and in being true to a promise she made herself… is going to write this “biography” as she feels it. She’s completely aware that this might cost her the fellowship… but that’s life. This is how she writes. She’s honest and true. She believes her purpose is to illuminate truth. Writing is the way she does that. It is her catharsis and she still believes that when you do what you love… the truth of it comes out. She wants to participate in this fellowship to attempt to find an outlet to let her voice be heard. She’s very appreciative of the opportunity and doesn’t want to appear flippant, but as arrogant and vain as she is… she’s not too big on shameless self promotion. She believes the work will find it’s way to the right people at the right time and it says more about her than any “biography” could. She’s a Leo who loves yoga (both physically and spiritually), reading, listening to jazz, shamelessly promoting her friends artistic endeavors and she hates referring to herself as “she”.



Jesus, what a tool! No wonder I'm sitting here with no fucking money. Blurg.

I'm adding this blog to Twitter

I hate Twitter and I'm trying to make this entire experience less painful. I don't even like texting. It's way too much. I don't want that much info about anyone, and I don't want them to have it about me, but since I have to think about 'marketing' and other bullshit I care nothing about so that someone can give me the money I need to pay my rent and buy food... so be it. I was feeling a little guilty about the blog post of me hating my mom, but oh well. It's not as passionately true today, but the facts remain the same. So hi.

Job Search

Today I have nine jobs waiting for me to write cover letters for in my email queue. I hate writing cover letters. At least most are jobs I'm actually interested in. I always get so insecure about writing cover letters. They all seem like bullshit. Since I've rarely worked in traditional workplaces (and never had a full time job for more than 3 months in my entire adult life), the idea of writing a straight square cover letter always freaks me out. I'm always a little quirky because that's who I am and I don't want to sell a bill of goods to someplace I'll have to spend a significant amount of time. I have seen some good ones though and I'm going to give it the old bohemian try.

I'm going to the gym first to focus my mind. I'm only going to do 3 cover letters for the jobs today. I know I get burned out fast on things I'm not really interested in doing.

I hate this. I hate blind job sends. I hate it because it's never worked for me and I never receive any feedback so I keep changing my resume thinking it's the problem without really knowing. I've been freelance for 16 years and now that it's dried up it's made me question my basic value systems. It been good questioning with disturbing answers. Like, I know- KNOW- I cannot work in any corporate office environment. I don't want to use my life like that. I like money as much as the next girl, but is it really worth it to go to work everyday plotting my coworkers demise. It's really the conversation of it all. I hate the pedantic chitchat. If I could just show up, do my work (in however long it takes) and bounce then I'd be a happy clam.

But all the unspoken rules of conduct and conformity should have gotten beaten into me when I was still a kid. Instead, I got to wear whatever I wanted, speak my mind, manage my own time and people, and then go party with people I love and respect. I'm spoiled to the concept of work. Oh and did I mention they gave me a lot of money for it as well?

Oh, well. It's a new dawn. It's a new day. Let me go take out my frustrations on the elliptical machine and come back home and bang this out.

Dispondant

I guess I don't write because I don't feel like I have anything to say. I've started a storytelling night at my local bar, but still don't think what I have to say is important. It's a problem. I don't even have a story to tell next Monday, and it's my damn night. Arghh.

I feel like all of this is bullshit. What's the point of any of it? I'm feeling very doomsday machine about the entire existence. I guess that's what depression is, but the side effects of the anti depression meds sound like a hangover to me and drinking's much more fun.

I kinda want to tell a story about sex, but really? I can scant remember what that's even like. What about my childhood? Well if I'm drunk enough, which already says a lot about that story. I don't have any new stories to tell except what lives in my head. Not having much cash has limited my movements. FALSE. Freaking out about money and having the darkness living just over my head has limited my movements. This is NYC and I'm smart enough to find free shit.

What do I want to say? That I don't believe in the life I was bred to live. I think the whole system is going down in flames so why try to run a losing race? I can see through the illusion of a middle class ideal and what I interpret as the plastic boringness of it. It seems stupid to continue applying for jobs I don't want that I never hear back from anyway. The questioning of the choices I've made. Fighting hard to move forward and find my own way. All with $37 to my name.

I'm exhausted and feel like it's only going to get worse. I don't believe that all the time and it's not ingrained in my core. Yet the active part of me gets paralyzed and overwhelmed by it. I have no security anywhere. I have no job, my rent's always late, my family's moved from my childhood home, and the part that makes me mad to write- I'm single.

It makes me mad because I don't like to identify with the idea that a man would make any of that easier. [Yet see the sex comment above.]

I'm going to see Liza tonight and maybe her abject crazyness will inspire me to get over myself and stop the voice that tells me it's all worthless.

Happy post Kiddo, happy post.

I am so sick of not working

There's only so much boozing and vegging out I can do. I'm now DYING to got to work somewhere. I just sent out an invitation to my favorite podcast The Risk Show to be an intern. And I'm totally jazzed about it. I hope they accept. My new resume has filled me with confidence. Wish me luck.