In which the frustrated writer engages in venting

Having just emailed inquiries re: interviews for assistant English teaching positions in the Japanese public schools, I now sit back, take a swig of cranberry juice -- every other suitable “Potent Potable” (thank you Alex Trebek!) having been consumed – and wonder what the fuck? Do I really want to be a monkey in the corner waiting for the “real teacher,” to turn and ask me to take centre stage and to yip away in English for the edification of a bunch of not-so-eager-to learn Japanese youth? Answer: of course not! But what about earning money? If not this, then what? Navy regulations forbid going out and getting a job as a stripper/hostess/escort, so I’ll have to whore myself out in a SOFA (status of forces agreement)—approved manner. Argghh….

Candice to self: Why did I drop out of grad. school? (Because I hated it! Must remember that; must cling to that hate desperately!) But, boy oh boy, had I only stayed! Right now, could be engaged in a fruitless search to find work. As a SOCIOLOGIST. Hmmm…On second thoughts, Argghh!!!! It’s weird to think that thanks to choices made, I now find myself in a position where the only real qualification I possess is my ability to speak “Engrish.”

But! Wait! Candy-san, you’re a seasoned waitress, you say. Why not reenter that oh so rewarding profession on the sly? Worried about the boys in blue? Why, if you play your cards right, girl, they’ll be none the wiser (heh heh heh). Hark! I hear Tokyo’s more seedy and disreputable eating establishments calling… Why not heed the siren call? Well, I’ll tell you why not. Because I hated waitressing! Arghhh……

I do thank waitressing and all my other fuck-ups for helping me to meet some really interesting/awful people and even helping me to make a few wonderful and much-treasured friends along the way, not to mention providing grist for the writer’s mill (which, aside from these posts, lies idle and in need of oil). Besides, I’m getting tips for being a language whore. That’s close enough to being a waitress, thanks verrry much.

Perhaps it’s time to forget about making money: to resign myself to asking hubby for money for tampons and cigarettes and to don some dungarees, wrap my head in a doo rag, and plunge into the labyrinthine and much neglected world of my writer’s box. It’s kind of a black box, the supposedly indestructible kind left behind on “the doomed airliner.” Perhaps the eagle has landed. Or crashed? Time to take a delicate approach to unraveling the mysteries within. Or, time to take a hammer to the stubborn little black mofo, forcing it to cough up unheretofore seen literary gems. Am afraid of this time. Feel pressure building up within (which reminds me of urgent need to get skyrocketing blood pressure under control). Am afraid that cracking the box would end up cracking me wide open. Not sure what will emerge. Torrents and torrents of bile? A world of tears? A gibbering lunatic? All this and MORE!!!??? A world breathlessly awaits…Not.

Now, it’s time to go and prepare for tonight’s teaching session… “Hello [unpronounceable] san. Let’s review the alphabet, shall we?” [Ooh what fun!] “A is for Apple, B is for Bullshit. C is for Cunt, D is for Dick… Oops. Sorry ‘bout that [unpronounceable]-San….What’s that you say?” ‘Unprofessional’? ‘Uncouth’? Why yes! Don’t let the smart little outfit (thank you, Filene’s basement) fool you!”