Two weeks ago I quit the job that I have held for four years. I began working at Walgreen's during an incredibly bleak time of my life, which was not at all helped by the environment in which I had placed myself. I have been meaning to quit for almost the entirety of the two years it has been since I rejoined the living and went back to school. I just couldn't fathom leaving it behind, because I was so comfortable in my mediocrity there. Plus they paid me too much for doing so little. I think that I was actually supposed to be doing something to earn my paycheck, but I never let that stop me from bringing my Kindle to work and reading behind the counter.
In the time that I did work there I printed more naked pictures than I could possibly describe to you. In case you were wondering, attractive people almost never take naked pictures of themselves. No, instead it is only those who are deluded by their level of attractiveness that find themselves fit to bare it all. Let's just say that people need to learn their limits, they also need to stop holding outdoor strip clubs at motorcycle rallies, because believe me, those are more prevalent than you would think.
I probably should have been one of those people who was prepared to leave a job, with another waiting in the wings. I am not one for preparation, and make most decisions on a whim. So just in time for the holiday season, I am gainfully unemployed. Thankfully, I haven't eaten at Subway for three weeks and have accumulated hundreds of dollars from the savings. I've applied for a few jobs, since the only paying gig I have left at the McNeese Contraband is about to go on hiatus when the current semester ends. I will likely have to find a job before I graduate, so if you know of anyone who would be happy to hire a lazy, sarcastic boy who will more than likely at one point be charged for sexual harassment, please tell them to send all offers to my email address, jordan@jordangribble.com. In the meantime, I have nothing but time to kill.
case closed
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Binford tools proudly presents
Two weeks ago I was forced to volunteer to help rebuild Millennium Park, a wooden children's structure that was burnt down last December. I had only been to the park once as it originally had stood, because by the time it was built I was too old for swing-sets and slides. Also, I think the park eventually had a larger following of crystal meth dealers, than it did children patrons. Nonetheless, it was decided that the park was to be rebuilt after the, I'm assuming countless sex auctions that resulted in the two million dollars necessary to begin.
As the Vice-President of the McNeese chapter of the Society for Professional Journalists (SPJ), I was expected to partake in any charitable event that we had planned over the course of the semester. Sadly, all of those events fell through, and we were forced to volunteer for anything we could find. After I suggested several times that we should read newspapers to the homeless (for at least it would have something to do with journalism), I was rebuffed on the reasoning that it wouldn't actually benefit anyone. To my chagrin we eventually decided to help rebuild the park, so that generations of pedophiles to come can take their pick at the kiddie buffet.
I am not a mechanically inclined man. I know nothing of how things work. I can't even jump-start a car, or change a flat tire. The only home improvement projects I've been forced to participate in, have either ended in me falling through the roof of the garage, or the very unevenly wood-planked floors in my bedroom. Whenever it my father would make me assist him in one project or another, I was always the one who would hold things. I was about as useful as almost any flat surface, on which things can't easily roll off from and get lost. Actually, I was worse because I frequently did drop things; nuts and bolts that have never been recovered.
So it was with this knowledge that I showed up at the job site, not wearing the customary attire of overalls and a hard hat (hoping that if my clothing were deemed inappropriate, I might be asked to leave). My shirt was affixed with a name tag, which nearly made me leave. I abhor any event that forces me to wear any kind of badge. If I want you to know my name, I will say it out loud. There is no reason for you to be glancing in the direction of my nipples, to see my name. It is unseemly, and I don't appreciate it. I was eventually separated from the group I had arrived with, and saddled with a middle-aged lesbian named Betty. Betty was the "experienced" leader of our group.
We were tasked with building the turrets that would eventually sit upon the planned castles of the structure. Why, they couldn't just pick up one of the fancy, preassembled tree houses from the Home Depot, is beyond me. You can even get those ones with the big plastic Tic-Tac-Toe boards on the side of them. Those things are interactive, and probably educational. The kids would love it. I just don't understand the reasoning of building something, when you can throw some cash at and have it built for you.
I was given a drill, and a bucket of screws and instructed to affix boards at an angled pattern along the four sides of the structure. Needless to say my carpenter's license has never existed, and the task was not easy. First of all, did you know that drills are designed to drill in two different directions? Apparently, you can also unscrew things with a drill. After the twenty minutes of repeatedly trying to get a single screw into a 2x4, I was told to take a break. I was relegated to handing Betty screws. I was back to my old position, and I was comfortable in it. Betty told me how she wakes up every morning at four, to get to her job at the local airplane factory. Betty inspects the building of airplanes everyday, so it gladdens me that she has knowledge of drills. I was expected to say until five in the evening, at which time the construction would end for the day. Needless to say I got hungry around three, and made a flimsy excuse to leave. Betty was understandably crestfallen.
I believe that I am supposed to be glad that I was able to give back to the community. I do not feel that way. I am just glad that I was not tasked with handling the installation of any swings, which would have likely ended in children being catapulted into oncoming traffic had I been involved. That is not to say that one of my handmade turrets will not more than likely end in the decapitation of a six year old. When that happens, I'm sure the remaining members of SPJ will still be unwilling to read the results of my trial to the homeless.
case closed
As the Vice-President of the McNeese chapter of the Society for Professional Journalists (SPJ), I was expected to partake in any charitable event that we had planned over the course of the semester. Sadly, all of those events fell through, and we were forced to volunteer for anything we could find. After I suggested several times that we should read newspapers to the homeless (for at least it would have something to do with journalism), I was rebuffed on the reasoning that it wouldn't actually benefit anyone. To my chagrin we eventually decided to help rebuild the park, so that generations of pedophiles to come can take their pick at the kiddie buffet.
I am not a mechanically inclined man. I know nothing of how things work. I can't even jump-start a car, or change a flat tire. The only home improvement projects I've been forced to participate in, have either ended in me falling through the roof of the garage, or the very unevenly wood-planked floors in my bedroom. Whenever it my father would make me assist him in one project or another, I was always the one who would hold things. I was about as useful as almost any flat surface, on which things can't easily roll off from and get lost. Actually, I was worse because I frequently did drop things; nuts and bolts that have never been recovered.
So it was with this knowledge that I showed up at the job site, not wearing the customary attire of overalls and a hard hat (hoping that if my clothing were deemed inappropriate, I might be asked to leave). My shirt was affixed with a name tag, which nearly made me leave. I abhor any event that forces me to wear any kind of badge. If I want you to know my name, I will say it out loud. There is no reason for you to be glancing in the direction of my nipples, to see my name. It is unseemly, and I don't appreciate it. I was eventually separated from the group I had arrived with, and saddled with a middle-aged lesbian named Betty. Betty was the "experienced" leader of our group.
We were tasked with building the turrets that would eventually sit upon the planned castles of the structure. Why, they couldn't just pick up one of the fancy, preassembled tree houses from the Home Depot, is beyond me. You can even get those ones with the big plastic Tic-Tac-Toe boards on the side of them. Those things are interactive, and probably educational. The kids would love it. I just don't understand the reasoning of building something, when you can throw some cash at and have it built for you.
I was given a drill, and a bucket of screws and instructed to affix boards at an angled pattern along the four sides of the structure. Needless to say my carpenter's license has never existed, and the task was not easy. First of all, did you know that drills are designed to drill in two different directions? Apparently, you can also unscrew things with a drill. After the twenty minutes of repeatedly trying to get a single screw into a 2x4, I was told to take a break. I was relegated to handing Betty screws. I was back to my old position, and I was comfortable in it. Betty told me how she wakes up every morning at four, to get to her job at the local airplane factory. Betty inspects the building of airplanes everyday, so it gladdens me that she has knowledge of drills. I was expected to say until five in the evening, at which time the construction would end for the day. Needless to say I got hungry around three, and made a flimsy excuse to leave. Betty was understandably crestfallen.
I believe that I am supposed to be glad that I was able to give back to the community. I do not feel that way. I am just glad that I was not tasked with handling the installation of any swings, which would have likely ended in children being catapulted into oncoming traffic had I been involved. That is not to say that one of my handmade turrets will not more than likely end in the decapitation of a six year old. When that happens, I'm sure the remaining members of SPJ will still be unwilling to read the results of my trial to the homeless.
case closed
Monday, November 14, 2011
on the horizon
- How I helped to build a park, in which several children will likely die due to my complete lack of knowledge on craftsmanship.
- How I became gainfully unemployed.
- How I found out that a person's twenties are for throwing up at the International House of Pancakes (IHOP).
- How I nearly got converted: a ridiculously religious experience in two acts.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
ready to reform/don't let it form us
I'm starting to realize that I can't wait to work in an actual newsroom; which is probably because the newsroom I work at now, is nothing like a real newsroom at all. I'm sure at the offices for the Dallas Morning News, no one sits around the office for two hours when everyone is supposed to be laying out the paper, and talk about playing Mega Man on the Super Nintendo for an hour and a half. Which is exactly where the conversation was at when I left the office thirty minutes ago.
The only thing I'm worried about is getting along with people on a day-to-day basis. I have a lot of personality quirks, that to some might be considered hilarious; but to the general populace are probably thought of as grating, and possibly considered to be some kind of sex harassment. Saying inappropriate things such as "blow your load", "dick-bag", and "suck it", aren't considered as harassment; right? God, I hope not otherwise I'll run out of things to say.
I just fear that day when I'll be expected to make small talk with a bunch of people I don't give a shit about. I find it really hard to feign interest. Actually, if a conversation wanders away from being about me for more than thirty seconds I completely check out.
I just don't want the professional world to change me. I don't want to be any different, I do not want to be one of those guys who lives for his job, and is good at things like exchanging pleasantries, and kissing ass. I cannot imagine that would be good for me. What would be good for me however, is ending this post right now and falling asleep while watching Back to the Future (I've never seen it).
Case Closed.
The only thing I'm worried about is getting along with people on a day-to-day basis. I have a lot of personality quirks, that to some might be considered hilarious; but to the general populace are probably thought of as grating, and possibly considered to be some kind of sex harassment. Saying inappropriate things such as "blow your load", "dick-bag", and "suck it", aren't considered as harassment; right? God, I hope not otherwise I'll run out of things to say.
I just fear that day when I'll be expected to make small talk with a bunch of people I don't give a shit about. I find it really hard to feign interest. Actually, if a conversation wanders away from being about me for more than thirty seconds I completely check out.
I just don't want the professional world to change me. I don't want to be any different, I do not want to be one of those guys who lives for his job, and is good at things like exchanging pleasantries, and kissing ass. I cannot imagine that would be good for me. What would be good for me however, is ending this post right now and falling asleep while watching Back to the Future (I've never seen it).
Case Closed.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
An open/shut case
I'm starting a new blog, because I think that it's time I've graduated from Postarita. I created Postarita in 2005 when the life I had created began to collapse in on itself. Everything was changing, and more so I was changing, although I had no idea as to what I was becoming. I went from being a college student, waiting tables for a living and in the relationship I thought was going to last forever; to a perennially single college dropout working at what is purported to be America's greatest pharmacy.
I then went back to school to finish a degree in journalism, a curriculum which I will be graduating from in exactly one year come December. I am the news editor for my college newspaper, The Contraband. I have plans for graduate school, and moving away from Louisiana. I'm not in love with anyone right now, but I want to be; and maybe I could be soon. In short, it feels like I am finally beginning to figure things out.
That is why I am calling this blog the Open/Shut Case. I like the idea of detectives in the nineteen twenties declaring that something is so obvious that further discussions are not necessary. I like thinking that I've got things figured out to the point that my life is like one of those obvious murder cases, where all the clues are so firmly in place that investigations are over before they begin.
The Open/Shut Case is about knowing what I know, and figuring out what I've figured out; and using that information to live my life in simple and happy terms. If you've ever read Postarita you would know that it's not likely for me to ever be able to distance myself from the ridiculousness that tends to find me everyday; not that I'm looking to separate myself from it. If Postarita was about having things happen to me, than the Open/Shut Case is about learning from those things.
I'm sure over the course of this blog, I'll find that I haven't learned as much as I think I have. I hope that you'll read anyway. I hope that you'll do this with me.
Case closed.
I then went back to school to finish a degree in journalism, a curriculum which I will be graduating from in exactly one year come December. I am the news editor for my college newspaper, The Contraband. I have plans for graduate school, and moving away from Louisiana. I'm not in love with anyone right now, but I want to be; and maybe I could be soon. In short, it feels like I am finally beginning to figure things out.
That is why I am calling this blog the Open/Shut Case. I like the idea of detectives in the nineteen twenties declaring that something is so obvious that further discussions are not necessary. I like thinking that I've got things figured out to the point that my life is like one of those obvious murder cases, where all the clues are so firmly in place that investigations are over before they begin.
The Open/Shut Case is about knowing what I know, and figuring out what I've figured out; and using that information to live my life in simple and happy terms. If you've ever read Postarita you would know that it's not likely for me to ever be able to distance myself from the ridiculousness that tends to find me everyday; not that I'm looking to separate myself from it. If Postarita was about having things happen to me, than the Open/Shut Case is about learning from those things.
I'm sure over the course of this blog, I'll find that I haven't learned as much as I think I have. I hope that you'll read anyway. I hope that you'll do this with me.
Case closed.
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