Sunday, April 22, 2012
When I feel like a juggler runnin' out of hands
It will be written down on a piece of paper and shuffled on a desk, meaningfully shuffled, but shuffled, forgotten except in case of a persistent person who needs something from you. She will shuffle too, to the kitchen for a quick 30 minutes. Something in us that abhors work, so we feel entitled not to do it, even while they're paying us to be here. American workers, too smart for their own jobs. Fixing, scheming, faintly conniving always to get a little bit ahead. Of themselves, really. But what would be the fun in doing something you're perfectly well qualified for, or never lying a little about what you're able to do? I have told happy, ambitious lies to employers, or tried to get them to let me do so. I have made myself out to be a fully qualified professional copyeditor. I have overstated, drawn false analogies, and talked past my inadequacies. I'm no better than anyone else.