Curse you, brevity!

I'm hand-writing a cover letter, and I hate it, because the "cover letters should always be one page" rule shouldn't apply to hand-writing, and I'm sure it doesn't. My stupid one is two-and-a-bit pages, though, and that's not acceptable. Even if it IS wicked good and funny and personal. This is what I get for typing my first draft.

I shall make coffee, then, and try it again.

My recent employers haven't the hours available that I need for work. I was crushed, but I'm one of these "it happens for a reason" kinds of people. Returning there for six months or more had me near tears yesterday morning. I'd hate being in another office. I'll get a job, and soon. More importantly, I think I'm going to get the right job for the right time in my life. I found this one, and I'll tell you about it later, that had me dreaming about it last night. I'd be so FUCKING good at it. Okay, fine, it's being a personal assistant.

Personal assistants sound so lame, I know, but people don't realize a) the variety the job offers, which is awesome for an ADD person like me, but more importantly, for a writer like me who needs inspiration. Monotony kills inspiration. Office jobs sucked my soul through a straw, and I weep at the idea of being in an office again. This wouldn't be that. I could cook for people, hang with their kids, solve their problems, do shopping, do office work, do everything they need. It's cool. I'm that kind of person by nature. And b) we're living in the age of the assistant. I've seen ADS for assistants that pay $70,000 a year, plus benefits, plus commission, plus incentives. Don't fucking kid yourself; it's a different world for assistants.

People understand now that a quality assistant can transform your life. It can add to their success, and as a result, they're now paying top-dollar for exceptional assistance, and people are leaving the rat race to help these Important People because the finances make it a brilliant choice. Know what? I'm THAT KIND of assistant-in-the-making. I told my old bosses about the opportunity and they emailed me back, and I quote, "You would be BLOODY FANTASTIC in that capacity!" Emphasis are theirs. And I would be. I know it. More importantly, I can sell that to the employers. Make 'em believers, says I.

God, I want this. The job posting has been reposted for a third time, with snarky edits to it, since I expect they're getting complete morons applying. I'm practically over-qualified, but I'm so ready for this kind of job. More importantly, this kind of job -- this particular one, specifically -- offers me the chance to network and make connections for my writing... infinitely important. Writing is a business. Skill's only part of the job. Business smarts are everything, and selling yourself is the way to go. This gives me an in, and believe me, I'll take that and fucking run with it.

This week could go from hell to Everything Right if this pans out. Because, naturally, I'll get their application right, and better yet, I'll exceed supplying the info that they're asking for. I always do. I crunched my numbers and I can make rent in July. I'll be a fucking hermit, but I can make rent. I'll sort it out.

I'd fucking fall on a sword if I had to work in an office again. Fluorescent lighting gives me cancer of the brain. I know other people like office work. Whatever, I fucking hate it. This would keep me interested, hopping, and always doing new things... and not under fluorescence. Wicked.

Coffee needs making. Keep your fingers crossed.