And, in effect, having nothing to say.
Do you ever get that way?
Where you feel not uninterested, but utterly and completely uninteresting? Where you don’t want to impinge on friends because, though you’d have fun hanging out with them, your sure that your fun would be a result of draining the fun out of their lives?
Or where you don’t think you’ll ever date again because you can’t, for the life of you, imagine how anyone finds you interesting? You, well, you don’t matter. You can live with yourself. I mean, you have all these years and you will, you surmise, until the day you die.
I know this is a state of mind. I have my ID card. My passport was stamped at the border. And though I want to settle down somewhere else, I know that we all have to serve our time here. If we all leave, then who will buy the vanilla ice cream cones? Who will look at the river, beautiful and clear, and say, “Eh?”
In the next few weeks I’ll be done with all (most) of my job applications. Then I’ll be writing again, regularly.
Until then, boring helps no one. No one is interested in boring. Boring one no interested is in.
My greatest fear – job-wise – is that I’ll have an interview.
Wait for it.
And in that interview, I’ll find myself uninteresting. And if I find myself uninteresting, how can I go about convincing anyone else that I am interesting?
I think I’ll wear a funny shirt.