a good friend (good, meaning fucking fantastical yet brutally honest when i just want someone to rub on my balls and nod in agreement) recently told me that “stability is a figment of your imagination.” at the core, methinks he is right. i argued that he couldn’t fault me for longing to “have it together.” while i may give off the impression that i’m cool and in control (a role i’ve grown horrible at portraying as of late), i’m realizing with each passing day of unwanted freedom that i’m tired of just getting by. a month ago, this cool, nifty job in a restaurant on the upper east side serving seafood to rich, entitled, jewish jackasses seemed to be the bee’s knees. now? i’m told to either go home or stay home two of four scheduled days out of the week. business is slow. reservations don’t pour in as much as they once did. meanwhile i’m forced to sling dick downtown on christopher street to bring home the turkey bacon. and can’t EVEN afford kneepads. and no troubled governors or nfl quarterbacks have sought out my services.
like many of my peers, i’m a dreamer. and i’m very vocal with my dreams. to be a big-time, “working” choreographer/writer/enterprenuer/pimp/whatever…that’s the goal. i realize that this transitional phase i’m in is
but my nature causes me to gauge my progress in relation to my peers’: one (who’s younger than i) scooped up a lovely executive job with a huge retailer…in a field he loves…and goes home at night to his own apartment. one manages a massive store in times square. another successfully navigated the ranks of under acheivers and subordinate-fucking lesbian store managers to gain rank at pottery barn. another just completed a national tour dancing for the disney channel’s 15-year old jesus. why can’t i get it right?
so, here i sit, mid-afternoon, writing on my roommate’s laptop (rather than my OWN computer, which was taken in an angry, spite-filled rage…but whatever…) frustrated with life, sighing deeply as i estimate what’s left after i pay rent. another goal: to have my OWN space at some point this summer/fall….living comfortably, leaving behind these days of masterfully navigating grace periods and minimum payments. while the choice between a weekly metrocard and that cool new movie is quite effortless, i truly feel some kinda way having to pass on dance classes so that i’ll be able to eat for the rest of the week. the easy, sure, and safe route would be to hop my happy ass on monster.com and smile my way back into some random manhattan office building that guarantees a steady, predictable paycheck. however, i’d rather fuck a chainsaw. since leaving the desk job last june, i realized that i HATE mornings about as much as i HATE dressing up in my best business casual ‘fit and tap dancing con una big gay grin daily at the good job in the city that proud mary left. so, that leaves me dancing from restaurant to restaurant, getting creative while hustling up enough scrilla to survive…all while assuring mommy and daddy that all is “pretty good” here in new york.
…the life of an overly proud 23-year old. should i just say: “alex, motherfuck your pride. park that ass behind a desk and answer phones and enter orders for a few hours a day.” the restaurant industry can be so wierd and unpredictable. and whoring season hasn’t quite started up yet.
oh well…as long as mom and dad think all is well….i’m in the clear.