Busy Day

Busy Day

I'm tired. And I'm upset. Or more like frustrated, annoyed and irritated.

No, my first day at my temp job was ok. I was quite happy comparing stapling and monotonously typing while sitting at a desk to standing behind a counter waiting for customers (like my previous jobs). But after a couple of hours, I was bored out of my mind. All I could think was "I did not go to uni for 3 years to play with the stapler and put big numbers in order".

My whole department only has women, most of whom are married and have kids or are pregnant. So they like to talk about their family lives. I tried to concentrate on the sound of my stapler making holes in sheets of paper. I hoped it annoyed them. Ok, so I didn't really hope that, I was actually hoping it wouldn't bug them too much.

After work, I went to my dance class. I had extra time but not enough to go home, so I pretended to wait for a train at a train station. Some girl sat down next to me and started staring. She then decided to talk to me like we were friends. She kept saying I looked really familiar. I said she did too, but at the time I was trying to make her seem familiar. We talked for a bit 'cause she was quite nice. She asked what uni I went to and when I told her I finished, she said I looked young. Then, when my train came, it came to me! She used to work with me at the store last summer. I've only talked to her once then but we had a pretty long conversation. The reason I remembered was because last time she also told me I looked young. People don't usually say that to my face. Then I also remembered how she told me about living in India (and this girl looked Indian) and since she's in 2nd year of uni now, it would make sense that when I worked there, she would've just finished high school. I wished I could jump off the train to let her know my realisation.

The dance class wasn't as good as the one I went with April to. The girl-guy ratio was horrible. There were like 5 girls to every guy. And the instructors made some girls do the guys' parts which I really dreaded. Thank God, I convinced Andy to come. It guaranteed me that I would only do the girl's part. All those times at my all girls' school when I had to do the guy's part really put me off doing it.

The guys who came also were a lot worse than the ones from last time. They were old and stupid and terrible to dance with.

I think I will take this opportunity to encourage ALL guys (especially ones under 30) to join a dance class. It's a LOT of fun and you are really needed there! Especially to the one I go to. But unfortunately I can't tell you which one. Maybe you could just read my mind? Anyway, here are some reasons you should go:

1. You'll meet LOTS of girls
2. You'll be able to impress everyone with your cool moves on the dance floor.
3. It's a good form of exercise and it tones your body in the best way
4. It's fun!
5. Please????

Now, I'll get to the reason I'm frustrated. The person who I did the website for (for free, don't forget) called me up to tell me that she showed it to some people and they said that in order for a website to look professional, it has to be in shades of grey and blue. And they want me to redo it. Even though they loved it before and were really happy about it. I have nothing against blue and grey sites but I really don't think they're appropriate colours for the product they're selling. First of all, I don't have as much time to redo it and secondly, I don't want to work for free anymore.

What I'm afraid of, though, is that if I refuse to do it, they'll get someone else and I won't be able to show it off in my portfolio. It's the only thing that got me last week's interviews. Speaking of which, they haven't gotten back to me which means I didn't get those jobs. Very disappointed. I was kinda optimistic before about my job search, but now that I've got a crappy job that doesn't need any mental skills, I'm feeling like I will never find a job that would make use of my abilities.

Also, I have no opportunity to meet guys. I'll be alone with a boring job forever.

(Please, excuse my self-pity.)