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Today in funemployment: I sat in the car in the library parking lot and ate junk food while watching The Office on my Kindle. This endeavor was made somewhat awkward by the fact that I have an interview at this very library in a couple of weeks. I could have parked somewhere else to creepily eat my not Smartfood white cheddar popcorn, half-melted Reeses Minis, and Dr. Pepper . . . but the library has free wifi.
It struck me, while I furtively snacked in my car and wondered whether or not there are tumblrs devoted to pictures of fat people eating, that this very special brand of bourgeois daytime homelessness is shared by my fellow academics in the struggle. Grad students, unemployed or underemployed teachers, nerds driven out into the sun by their parents, other members of the boomerang generation with nowhere to go, limited cash, and a desperate need to get the fuck out of their parents' house for a few hours.
While my hippie ass is working on getting a job, I am also working on a research project and writing better posts. You know-topical, based on research and facts, less use of the word fuck. It's either that or succumb to some sort of craft.
When a person types things, I find that I prefer frequent use of the work fuck. I always feel odd at work when we are piling into the car and have to tell them not to mind the car, since I live out of it. They always seem to understand, and I have no intentions of giving it the deep cleaning that it deserves, but I still always have to say it.
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