I finally met with a career coach last Friday, so I guess I'm all serious about this job hunt now. But last Saturday, my... uh, motivation picked up a respiratory infection and that was plenty good reason to stay in bed clicking my remote and coughing up phlegm. It was my most productive week all year. The downside to being sick and idle all week was that I had plenty of time to be bummed out over how I'm an Ivy League graduate three years and I still have the work schedule and income of a high-school dropout. I need to be proactive here.

Let's see: when I grow up, what do I want to be? It's too bad the position of British crown prince is already taken — I'd be good at that. All he does is march in parades and wave to the crowds; the only requirements for the job are that you have a hand attached to an arm. I have two; I'm overqualified! I think I would also make a pretty good Ben & Jerry's ice cream taster (sure beats being a making a living as a dog food taster), Miss Teen America judge, professional sleeper and/or copulator, Disney Imagineer, or treasure hunter — I could probably go on all day and night — but those jobs appear to be off the market right now. When I consider what's left, I see myself probably freelancing as either a writer or a maniacal masked supervillain... and since I already have the skill set and business casual wardrobe to be a writer, I think I'll go with that.

Judith, my career coach, said that I need to force my work upon an unsuspecting, and unforgiving, audience. My goal — let's say her goal for me — is to get feedback. Ugh. I know I invite you guys to leave comments for me, and I'm even disappointed when the readership is silent, but I'm writing in my virtual world, safe behind like ten different firewalls and encryption protocols. Right now, I've got a little pillow fort set up to protect me from space aliens or rampaging barbarians or constructive criticism. If I wanted feedback, I'd just talk to people face-to-face, the way they did in olden times, like 1998. Judith began the sorts of critiques I'm supposed to be looking for during our meeting. I handed over my blog's address, and for what was at least five hours, she was reading it to herself while I peeked over her shoulder. Super, super awkward.

She'd chuckle, and inside I'd be like, "Yes! Nailed it!" and then there'd be a long, long, long silent time till the next teeny laugh.

In her eyes, my blog is often distant and dispassionate, maybe more vitriolic than necessary, but I'm funny. I think she's making an off-hand allusion to my literary Q-rating, which I calculate as modest but serviceable, and I briefly considered selling out, blogging about how totally awesome freaking celebrities are and the super-cute thing my puppy learned to do yesterday, but I can't do it. At least not for the lousy wages professional bloggers earn. I figure I can't be the only acerbic person in the world, and there's probably a market of spoiled, crotchety white people somewhere out there looking for an online messiah.