I wake up at a reasonable hour, after all the early bird gets the worm. I check my email, and nobody has replied. I get back in bed and stare at the ceiling and repeat certain Buddhist mantras that stress perseverence and patience. "It's just a matter of time until you find a job." "Do your best and things will fall in place" is on permanent repeat inside my head. I notice the cobweb on the ceiling is expanding nicely.

Unemployment to me is, like most things in my life, about controlling bipolar reactions. It's about finding that middle path between "Oh, this job is perfect!"(when I find that gem among the hundreds of 'exciting opportunity for go-getters') and "I don't stand a chance" (when I finally email my resume and salary history).

My schizophrenic curiosity has rendered my resume a sticky paper for far-flung experiences. I can type 90 words per minute. I’ve interned at an advertising company called Wong Doody. I’ve taken special orders for sandwiches at a diner. And I’ve taught a roomful of Chinese immigrants the past perfect continuous tense. This buffet of skills confuses employers. They are wary of accepting someone who could very well join the circus next time it comes around. (I can juggle. I can whistle both by blowing out and in, with perfect pitch, and in four octaves. And people also tend to laugh at me easily.)

Even though I'd like to blame this on humans slowly becoming insects (specialization has killed the renaissance ideal) I simply know better.

Today, I will be applying for an advertising position in Newport Beach.