Introspection

The last time I was at work, several of my customers advised me not to be honest on my resume for whatever future job I might pursue.  "If you tell someone what you've done (exotic dancing), they're going to want to fuck with you."  "So?" "Maybe I should be clearer.  They're going to want to fuck you.  If I didn't know you, I wouldn't hire you.  No one in corporate America would want to hire you."

As usual, my customers have the sweetest way of lending me their vote of confidence.  While I'm not necessarily inclined to believe them until I've tried and failed to get a traditional job myself, there's a part of me that's relieved.

I don't know how well I'd fare in a traditional job anymore.  I'm far too accustomed to being my own boss.  Maybe this will become my excuse not to waste times pursuing the traditional job-seeking model.

I don't know what to do next, though.  It's been suggested to me, and I have to agree, that our generation seems to be saturated with this sense of entitlement, regardless of our lot in life.  We've all been raised to believe we're secretly meant to be the superstar.  No one remembers that we all need someone to flip our hamburgers.  I haven't decided which of those two categories I'm ultimately destined for.  (Most likely I'll end up somewhere in between.)

But is my insistence on finding a job that suits me a symptom of the entitled attitude of my generation or is it my own perfectionistic tendency to demand that I'm always climbing to newer levels of acheivement?

Honestly, I have a cold, my nose is stuffy, and I don't care anymore.

I've spent the last couple days going over my novel.  Again.  It's beautiful.  But is it perfect?  Nothing's perfect.  And this will never be perfect enough for me.

I just keep running through it looking for flaws.  Again and again.  How am I ever going to publish this thing if I don't stop editting?

I'll finish this draft tonight.  After that, I'll have to give it to someone to read.  Probably my fiance.  And while he's reading it, I'm going to run to work so I don't have to pace around the apartment feeling uncomfortable while someone reads my less than absolutely perfect novel.