xanga is dead.

We'll start it off light . . . that's an Anberlin lyric. . . listening to "Cities" lately. And the last five songs on that album really make me listen up. Verses just letting the music play play play and then wake up and realize I have song stuck in my head and don't know what it is. . . .because I wasn't listening.

Then segue into a brief note about ballroom dance lessons . . . last night I learned the basics of swing dancing. I really enjoy my ballroom dance lessons, and I like my instructor, and the friends he brings to his classes to fill it up because I'm the only one who comes. I need . . . a partner. This is where a b/f would come in handy. More so, this is where a male friend would come in handy. Which brings me to a brief lament that I don't have any of those. Not the kind who would be willingly drug along to a dance class. This is not a diss to the many fine friends of that gender . . . but there just aren't any in Denver.

And now for a quality session of whineage. I can't do this. On August 2nd, my seventh job interview and second for this company, Macy's offered me a full-time position. I accepted. I signed paperwork. They said they'd call. After two weeks, I called. Left a message. Finally, they called back. Said call back on Monday and things will get worked out. I call on Monday, left a message. Tuesday, they call while my mom is busy on the phone and so it's past nine when I get the message. "Oh hey, just wanted to call and tell you, never mind!  We MIGHT have a job for you, and it MIGHT start mid-September, but we'll call. Sorry about that!" Is it just me or is there something wrong with that picture? And now I have to start the job-search again, because I lost trust that Macy's would keep their word. And if I don't find a job, maybe they will have one for me come mid-September. But I won't count on it.

My heart has shriveled inside.

Dead cats found after high-speed chase
I'd like to nominate that headline as the worst one I've seen lately. It implies that cats died due to a high speed chase, instead of inhumane treatment and unthinkable abuse. You can read the article here, but yeah. Dumb people. Dumb headline. Poor animals.

Today I had my sixth interview of the last two weeks. Number 7 is on Thursday. Seven is the only follow-up interview of the bunch. But it doesn't mean anything. I hate job hunting. I loathe it so much it's hard to express. You dress up in your nicest most impressive clothing, you put on a nice smile, you present a whitewashed carefully abridged version of yourself to say "I'll be a valuable and reliable employee for your company" even if you know that you and that company won't fit. You want to leave them with the impression that they WANT you even while trying to figure out if you can put up with them. This is an exceptionally grim view. I acknowledge this in full. I have interviewed at some companies that I got the greatest impression from and had the most distinct feeling that we'd be an excellent match. But I didn't get jobs at those businesses. And thus, I feel justified in being negative over the whole job-hunting shindigeroo.

I did experience the most singularly unusual encounter however. It was a group screening interview; they stuck thirteen people in a room and left them there for a long time. One table sat ten. The other table sat three. I was at the small table. On my left, I had this overly friendly, loquacious older woman named Kim and on the right, was a less-talkative (and the only straight male) Chris. We were discussing the drawbacks of a straight-commissions position when she suddenly tells me that I am "so positive! how did I get to be so positive?" I am literally and unremittently speechless. I can't seem to wrap my head around it. I'm always being told that I'm too negative-- that I drag things down too far. Still processing. I'm not sure yet if it was a compliment. . . or a sign or a Divine nudge/hint/beyotch slap? Processprocessprocess.

The title of this entry . . . dates back to Monday, July 23. I've been back at "home" for barely 48 hours and I'm job hunting. Anything to get out of the house, sadly. I'm hustling across a street in the face of traffic, cosily sheltered by my mp3 player shielding me from the world. A dirty, scruffy, unkempt man asks if I can spare any change.  I'm crossing the street and listening to music. I am too busy to respond and I can pretend I didn't hear. As I'm walking off I hear him speak. "Sure, just walk away. Don't listen to me. Pretend I'm not here." It was something along those lines. I felt guilt-stricken as I walked away and those words drove home my sense of responsibility. I turn-- but he's gone. I'm so wrapped up in a cocoon of bitterness and hurt that all I know is my pain and resentment. I'm walking down the 16th St Mall later on when I think I see a familiar figure. It's the guy who asked for change. Having my cocoon cracked by his on the mark mutterings earlier, I am pierced with compassion. I stop him, apologize for ignoring him. Ask if he's hungry. The passion with which he says "I'm thirsty" strikes me. It's a blazingly hot day and my nalgene is drunk down to the dregs. He says his name is Jon and he looks pale and sweaty, swaying a little, like he might faint at any moment. Walking around all day with nothing to drink, I would have fainted already.We end up in 7-11, and I find that Jon thinks that mango gatorade is da-bombdiggity. It's divine. It's on sale. 2 for the price of 1. Jon and I part ways. It was a brief encounter. It was meaningful and significant and I sat on the bus pondering whether or not my act was out of love-- pure Jesus love-- or if it was a selfish act to assuage a guilty conscience and make ME feel better. I will admit, although I loathe to, that I believe it's the latter rather than the former. It was still a good act. But. . .

My heart is dust and ashes.