"Hotshot"

Just over a month ago I took advantage of a momentary imbalance in the universe and managed to con someone into giving me a full time job.

It’s now been a month since I started this job and I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to paint an impressive picture of myself as a “young corporate hotshot” at the beginning of a successful career, but the words just wouldn’t come to me. It seems that describing myself as a young corporate hotshot is so far of base that even a well seasoned “creative writer” like me can’t pull off that kind of hyperbole. Not that I didn’t try.

So as I reach this remarkably unremarkable one month milestone what do I have to say for myself?

Honestly?

I smell like piss.

No strange metaphor, no attempt at humour.

I’m sitting in my office and at this very moment I smell like piss. Don’t know why, don’t know how but I smell like a urinal at the MCG after half time.

It’s disturbing enough walking around the office smelling like I’ve been rolling around in a urinal but what really makes me mad is that I didn’t actually pee myself this morning, if I had I’d at least know who to blame. Maybe I stepped in a funky piss puddle this morning, maybe I unconsciously rubbed up against a homeless person, who knows. So I’m going to assume that all my efforts to make a good impression in the workplace have gone down the toilet. Embarrassing pun not intended. In all honesty suppose the smell it isn’t actually noticeable, but it’s still devastating.

I should try not to worry. This is nowhere near as embarrassing as spending the last year having to tell to people that after years of university I was working in retail- or as I sometimes described it the “fashion industry.”

EDITORS NOTE: At this point I would like to apologise for the overuse of “quotation marks.” Obviously Michael Who? is one of those infuriating people who always uses “air quotes” and makes those annoying gestures with his fingers. Idiot.

After months of rejection, which is the theme of my year for so many reasons, I somehow landed a great job. I’m working at a consultancy firm that specialises in public and corporate affairs, but I just say it’s a PR company. That way I avoid awkward conversations where I ramble ad nauseam about my job and people give me that blank stare usually reserved for conversations with the crazy uncle who tells you the same story every time you see him.

After the first week of being plagued by panic attacks and insomnia I think I’ve settled in quite well. The people I work with are all down to earth and treat me really well, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I immediately lose 80% of my social skills when I walk into the office, and subsequently make the most awkward, unfunny, cringe worthy small talk. I attribute my diminished social capacity to the amount of effort it takes to keep up a façade that I’m actually qualified for the job. It’s hard work.

It’s just hit home time o’clock. I’m going to tidy up my office and wrap up this urine drenched story at home.

The biggest problem with public trasnport is the public.

So I’m home, and I’ve discovered the source of the unfortunate smell. I clearly stepped in something funky this morning. As I type this my shoes have been sent to the furnace and my feet are soaking in a bucket of ammonia.

I’m feeling a lot better about myself now that the stench has been dealt with, I almost feel good enough to rewrite this and try and fool everyone into thinking that I am indeed a young corporate hotshot, (sans quotation marks), but I think I should focus on trying to figure out how to casually slip the following monologue into conversation at work on Monday morning…

“Hi all how was your weekend? Good, great. Mine too. So I stepped in piss on Friday morning, sorry if you happened to smell it. Just to clarify- I STEPPED in it, I did NOT lose control of my bladder, no sir, not adult diapers for me. Glad we could clear that up, and I’m sure we can all agree that there is no need to speak of this ever again. Ever. Again. Thanks.”

Subtle enough?

Square Eyes

Since completing an Arts degree last year my search for gainful employment draws painful parallels to the days I spent playing Nintendo in the early 90's.

Generally I would be relegated to sitting on the floor watching my brother and sister play; they would spend hours killing various pixilated monsters and telling me I could have a turn once their infinite lives ran out. Occasionally I managed to snatch the controls from my siblings after a series of violent attacks culminating in some vicious scratching and biting. So finally it’s my turn, I’d position myself dangerously close to the TV screen, wipe the blood from my hands (I’m not kidding about the violence), smile my crazy 7 year old smile, and start up a new game of Mario Brothers. Cue the delightfully irritating theme music.

Then... nothing.

It was no fun at all.

Instead of utilizing valuable waiting time learning how to play the game I’d been sitting there cursing at my brother and sister for not letting me play and telling myself that life wasn’t fair. This distraction left me so ill prepared that I couldn’t even defeat the lame pseudo-baddies that inhabited level 1. So very disappointing.

To make matters worse it seemed that whenever I began developing the slightest bit of gaming talent I’d hear,

“Enough of that for today, your eyes will go square!”

Mum’s voice booming from the laundry where she was scrubbing grass/blood stains out of our clothes.

Well years later, my eyes aren’t square, but I do have glasses, and I’ve been gazing blankly at my computer screen for the last 3 hours trying to find a job.

Despite that confusing and completely misguided metaphor the fact remains, I was no good at being a kid- I couldn't play Nintendo, and I’m no good at being an adult- I cant find a job.

The last six months I've spent working as a retail whore have dulled any potential I previously had to secure a job I wouldn't be ashamed of.

“Can I interest you in a pashmina scarf for the low low price of $10? The kids in the sweatshop have really outdone themselves this time.”

My soul has been dissected into little pieces and neatly packaged so that each time I smile and greet a customer who would rather be left alone, I can hand a piece over.

“How are you today? Can I help you with anything? I’m hear to make your retail experience as close to perfect as possible. Here- take a piece of my soul, this one is my dignity, I wont be needing it anymore.”

I’d like to think that after 3 years at university spent working harder than Christina Aguilera’s make up artist my job would involve something more than fighting with pre-menstrual middle aged women who want a further discount on a $10.00 pair of ill fitting pants.

“Give it up lady. Unless you plan to take a time machine back to 1999 and stop eating there is no way you are going to fit into those pants.”

On further contemplation my lack of success on the job front could be due to my less than desirable attitude. For example, my responses to application questions might not exactly be perfect…

Do you have a friendly and sociable nature?

No, but it would appear that I’m both friendly and sociable. You could say that I’ve spent the last 24 years mastering the art of doing all the superficial things that make someone appear friendly and sociable- which is basically the same as being friendly and sociable. So… yes… can I change my answer to yes?

I suppose if I really want to get a job I should increase the number of positions I’m actually applying for. What have I achieved today?

Jobs advertisements browsed – 231.5
Jobs applied for – 0
Misguided Nintendo themed metaphors created – 1

Enough of this for today, I really don’t want my eyes to go square.

My face already looks weird enough with my new giant sized chin.

...

To be con-chin-ued.

I know. It makes no sense. Just go with it.

I have nightmares that look just like this.

Knives Are Not Toys

TO: Michael Who c/o 1991
SUBJECT: Wise words of wisdom and wiseness.
FROM: You.
DATE: 27th March 2008

Dear Michael,

This letter should be reaching you at the beginning of the 90’s and I’m sure that by now you have begun wondering if there is more to life than your treasured set of Derwent coloured pencils so I, your future self, have decided to send you some advice. My first instruction is simple: guard that tin of Derwents with your life, Felicity P is a thieving kleptomaniac bitch and she will attempt to steal them every time you turn your back.

First and foremost, don’t sit there and pretend you can’t understand what you are reading, I am acutely aware that you are much smarter than you let on. Sure you can’t spell, but that really isn’t important, here in the future we have a thing called spelchek so you wil neva need 2 worry about dat. I understand why you put a great deal of effort into trying to hide your superior intellect. I know it’s because don’t want to seem like a geek, you want to be popular and have heaps of friends like your brother and sister. I hate to break it to you but it’s not going to happen at primary school or even high school. Trust your initial judgment, the vast majority of the people you meet at school are idiots, don’t bust your balls trying to impress them.

Be yourself.

By now grown ups have probably started asking questions like, “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”. Although your answer to questions like this will evolve over the years one thing will remain the same- you will still be inventing fake aspirations to appease people. You do deserve a big pat on the back for coming up with the whole “I’m going to be a palaeontologist because I love prehistoric dinosaurs,” lie. People love that answer because it is far fetched, yet brainy and cute. Even at 7 years old you have begun to develop the manipulative skills that will serve you well in later life, one small tip. Ask to go to the movies for your 8th birthday. Otherwise you are going to end up at an exhibition of life size animatronic dinosaurs that will give you nightmares well into your teenage years and blow that ‘palaeontologist’ lie out of the water.

Don’t be talked into doing anything you don’t want to. Trust your instincts.

Ok big ears lets talk health. First and foremost, stick with your plan to get those huge ears pinned back. Mum and dad totally believe the schoolyard bullying stories you are telling so a few more months of ‘schoolyard trauma’ and those extra large flappers will be stapled to your skull and never ruin a photo again. While we’re on the subject of vanity related health concerns can you please get your jaw checked out before the age of 15? Trust me, if you don’t get this fixed before you hit 20 you’ll need operations painful enough to make a deranged masochist blush.

In more serious news can you please eat something that’s primary ingredient isn't sugar. The list of medical conditions/incidents/traumas and experiments that can be avoided by simply taking better care of your body is staggering.

Take care of yourself, stop waiting for someone else to do it for you.

Now to the big issue, it’s about boys and girls. No actually it’s just about boys.

.

On second thought, you’ll figure it out for yourself.

I’ll just leave you with a few quick tips before I sign off. Blonde hair does not suit you, knives are not toys, never get into bed with a bass player, and finally- NEVER GET INTO BED WITH A BASS PLAYER!

Lots of love,

Me.

?

If there is a heaven, it's filled with Derwent pencils.

Bag Full Of Bags

Here is a photo of me standing in front of my wardrobe. (PHOTO REMOVED 2012 DUE TO REGRET - just use your imagination) you'll immediately see the horrified expression on my face. Note the bottles of Vodka on the shelf. Read on.

Fact. Store mannequins are large inanimate objects that are often missing facial features and sometimes even missing the entire head.

Fact. Store Mannequins look far more attractive in the clothes they display than I ever will.

Possible Fact. Mannequins are probably more attractive than me when out of clothes as well but I’d rather not lead into a conversation about my genetils.

I often get told that my grip on reality isn’t too tight and that my self esteem is lower than hell’s basement but I generally just dismiss these comments with a random self deprecating joke and then proceed with my day. However even I can recognise that I’ve got problems when I get mannequin envy to the point where I’m evoking violent fantasies similar to those I experience when I meet evangelical Christians.

Out in the city on my last shopping trip I was engaging in some casual banter with a sales assistant about an ill fitting pair of jeans. It went something like this.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: I’m not entirely convinced about the cut.

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally hot on you.

ME: What are your thoughts on renewable energy sources as a means of reducing greenhouse gas emissions?

SALES ASSISTANT: Those jeans look totally...

At this point I was distracted from our riveting conversation by a mannequin that I spotted out the corner of my eye. The mannequin was faceless; its skin colour could best be described as asylum wall grey; it only managed to stand upright with the assistance of a metal pole crudely bolted to its lower back, and most notably, it was wearing the same jeans as me- and it looked hot.

So what’s the real problem with this situation? No, I don’t have sexual fantasies about mannequins, although I did have a strange obsession with that movie ‘A Mom For Christmas.’ The real problem is that I bought the overpriced jeans despite feeling completely inadequate compared to the mannequin. I bought them in what can only be described as a reactionary and spiteful gesture towards the mannequin, the shop assistant, the shop assistants sniggering friend who was not previously mentioned in this story, and anyone who happened to make eye contact with me that day.

This is just one of the many convoluted reasons I use to justify my spending. At the moment I’m basically living on credit. I don’t actually have any of that stuff you use to buy things, you know what I mean, um, you give it to the person in the shop and they give you goods and or services, oh what’s it called, money? Yeah that’s it, money! So here are some of the completely logical reasons I’ve used to justify swiping the plastic and giving my autograph to retailers all over town.

You can never have too much black in your wardrobe.
You really need some colour in your wardrobe.
That fits perfectly.
That doesn’t really fit well but it’s cool.
That does not fit you at all but it’s a good price.
That t-shirt is a piece of art don’t deny your creative side the freedom of expression.
That sales assistant has been really helpful and nice, you should buy something.
That sales assistant is a fucking bitch, you should definitely buy something.
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
And so on and so forth.

As I cleaned out my wardrobe recently I made a startling discovery. A large black bag, filled to the brim with bags of every shape, colour and size. I steadily filled the bag over the last year, depositing bags one by one after each stupid purchase. Standing alone in my bedroom face to face with the bag full of bags I was completely overwhelmed. The bag was a horrific reminder of my mounting credit card debt, and it also prompted a horrible realisation that I was far shallower than I’d ever care to admit, this really upset me.

I had to get it out of my house. Like a man possessed I swept up the bag, ran outside to the bin, threw it inside and before the lid had even slammed shut I was on the phone with a friend provoking an intellectual conversation to reassure myself that I was more than a retail whore.

The next morning as I attempted to finish cleaning out my wardrobe I stumbled made another shocking discovery; I found something so horrific that I can’t even write a lame joke about it in an attempt to soften my shame.

I found ANOTHER bag full of bags.

It's times like these I remember why I keep vodka in my wardrobe.

Cheers.

Marcs shirt $120.

Ksubi jeans $300.

A life of prostitution to pay off the credit card, priceless.

Rhetorical?

Let me share one of my current concerns. I’m worried that at some point in the not to distant future medical researchers are finally going to realise that the appendix is actually a necessary organ, and that despite years of chopping them out of people with seemingly no harsh consequences the humble appendix is actually very important. Is it possible that the appendix holds the key to the meaning of life? Is it possible that I’ve just put forward the most ridiculous rhetorical question in history? The answer to at least one of these questions is yes.

Oh and another question- has anyone ever seriously considered the possibility that just because humans don’t shrivel up and die when the appendix is liberated from a tender abdomen it could actually be of some use?

Sure I’m being irrational, but I have good reason. I actually have two good reasons. Firstly, I had my appendix removed on New Years Day and since then my journey towards personal enlightenment has become considerably more difficult- thus conclusively proving that the appendix does in fact directly affect my mental state. Secondly the medication I’m taking at the moment lists “Lowered brain function” as a probable side effect. Other side effects of the pills include “Increased sensitivity to light,” plus “An intolerance of dairy products” and “An increased urge to hurl abuse at the teenage population who seem determined to burn out my already weary retinas with their current fluorescent clothing obsession.” While I’m on the topic, can someone over the age of seventeen please tell these little wannabe glow sticks that even in the days of parachute pants and hypercolour t-shirts nothing was anywhere near as bright as today’s “clothes,” and I use the term loosely.

Ok, I’m glad I got that out of my system, but unfortunately I’m still distressed by my lack of an appendix and what effect it will have on my life. As 2007 drew to a close I declared 2008 would be “my year!!!!!” much like I have done for the past three years. Only this time I made my declaration with much more determination and gusto- hence my use of numerous exclamation points to demonstrate the aforementioned gusto.

How good can a year be when it starts in the emergency room of Sunshine hospital with me listening to illegal fireworks exploding outside while I convinced the doctors to give me some of the top shelf drugs? And why do stupid fucking doctors feel the need to repeatedly point out that being in hospital is the worst way to spend New Years Eve? And how many rhetorical questions can I pose before it starts to get annoying? Just what is in store for Michael Who? In 2008?

I’ll endeavour to answer these and even more ridiculous questions in the not too distant future* here at the home of illogical rambling, Michael Who?.

(*Note the total ambiguity of this phrase.)

No.

BONUS FEATURE:

Today’s post has a bonus feature for anyone who can be bothered getting interactive.

It’s been months since I’ve shared any stories here and therefore I have a lot of random memories stumbling around in my head like Amy Winehouse after a quiet night of boozing and shooting up. I could probably shake out some ideas and arrange them into some kind of written thingy using my impressive literary skillz. So here’s where the interactivity comes in, I’ll give you a few options and you can leave a comment at the bottom of this post and tell me why you want to read about your chosen topic. If you give me a good reason I’ll get typing, simple as that.

Here are your choices;

“You Aren’t a Doctor, You’re a Vet.”
The story of my hatred for doctors, specialists, nurses, orthodontists, surgeons, etc etc...

“Guys You Shouldn’t Fall in Love With.”
This sounds like a list that I should be on, but it’s not, it’s about my stalker tendencies.

“Bag Full of Bags.”
What happens when you give an unemployed homo with self esteem issues a credit card limit of $20,000?

“3 Degrees of Education.”
I finally finished a university degree, now what? Seriously, suggestions are welcome.

Or any other ideas you have...