All of this may be hard to believe from someone who has, more then once, tried (and failed) to lick the inside of a cheese grater. But bear with me. I'm going to take you on a journey through time, back to the wonderfully naive, bright era of February, 2011.
James Franco finally pisses on the chips of his ill-deserved popularity by being a douche at the Oscars, and Adele has gone from being an unlikely popstar to leader of the free world.
It's a bright morning, and I have stayed home from college specifically for the anticipated delivery of a letter. A letter that, one way or another, is going to change the course of my life. I have spent the last three months of my life gearing my entire personality toward the winning of a teaching scholarship to Japan. I have bought a Japanese phrasebook, tried (and failed) to eat with chopsticks and have even started keeping up with Japanese current events. Yes really. I don't even keep up with Irish current events.
To me, winning the scholarship was as good as in the bag. Did it matter that I had no teaching experience, was average at languages, and disliked basically all children? Of course not. Once the application committee saw how much I wanted to go to Japan, surely they'd let me in. Right? Right?
They rejected me.
|How embarrassing for you|
It was upsetting, yes, but mostly it was just embarrassing. Having deigned to show interest in any MA courses, I really felt that I was up shit street without a switchblade. I had told everyone that I was going to Japan, and that nothing was stopping me. I had a perfect image of me being the "exotic one" out of my group of friends, the one that was perpetually having adventures and never stayed in one place. Obviously, this was childish, but I am a child. Ironically, a culture that is so obsessed with avoiding shame was becoming my primary source of it. I began resenting Japan, and started spending long hours in my room, hatefully eyeing up my Haruki Murakami books and Hello Kitty headphones.
|WHY DO YOU MOCK ME?|
And then, of course, this happened.
Although science is pretty certain that earthquakes happen because of screwy plate tectonics, when the March 11 disaster hit, I had a different theory. A theory that mainly pertained to the idea that my recent rants that Japan could "go fuck itself" had somehow affected the karmic balance and that Japan had indeed gone and fucked itself. I knew it was insane, but I felt oddly guilty for what had happened.
But life went on. I started a blog, and Japan rebuilt the shattered template of its existence. Que sera, sera.
Within time I found myself a new dream. I found that people other then me were beginning to enjoy my blog, and reasoned that I may be onto something. I decided that writing, above all other things, made me happy and that maybe this could be a viable career choice. I started writing freelance for a few publications, ultimately deciding that if I wanted to make any kind of impact, I would have to move to a climate where one could make a living from their creativity. London, of course, was the natural choice.
I sent out job applications and spent long hours googling the words "writing" "London" and "money". I applied for bizarre things, such as a subtitle reader for Channel 4 and a product writer for a designer clothes website. No response. My gmail account mocked me with Living Social deals and Amazon book suggestions. I began to start eyeing pictures of Big Ben and Paddington Bear snarkily, wondering who the hell London was to not respond to me.
I am Caroline, God of Wrath.