7.01 a.m.
Honestly, I swear I’m the only person in the universe who realizes how pointless life is. People act like mere existence is some beautiful gift, completely overlooking the fact that said existence is nothing but the result of a freak accident that occurred a cool 13.7 billion years ago.
Not to rain on the parade or anything, but we’re all doomed to a limited number of sun orbits before we finally kick the bucket and end up in the same infinite hell as Donald Trump and Adolf Hitler. Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but what we do between now and then barely seems worth getting out of bed for.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic. I just really hate getting out of bed.
2.47 p.m.
Just had a career counseling session with Mr Rosenqvist, who is Swedish and very flamboyant. Like Brüno but less subtle. Actually I think Brüno was Swiss or Austrian or something, but whatever. The point is I can’t look at Mr Rosenqvist without seeing Sacha Baron Cohen in a blond wig.
The dude tries really, really hard to make sure everyone FOLLOWS THEIR DREAMS [he is very shouty, hence the caps lock] and TAKES THE PATH LEAST TRAVELED and STOPS INJECTING HEROIN ON WEEKENDS. [I hilariously added that last one myself. To clarify: nobody at Edgewood High is in the habit of injecting heroin on such a regular basis that it would be of concern to our career counselor. In fact, if you are a lawyer who’s reading this, please ignore every such allegation I make throughout this manuscript, because I really don’t need to add a libel suit to my spectacular list of problems.]
We’re sitting in Rosenqvist’s minuscule, windowless office, which I’m pretty sure is just a repurposed broom closet, if the lingering scent of carpet cleaner is anything to go by. He sits behind a tiny desk that would be more suitable for a Borrower. There are filing cabinets everywhere, containing folders on every single student in the entire school. I would imagine there’s probably some sort of electronic database which could replace this archaic system, but Bible Belt schools really love to do things the Old-fashioned Way™.
So he’s all: “Miss O’Neill, have you given mach thought to vat you vould like to study ven you go to college next fall?”
[I’m going to stop trying to type in dialect now as I don’t want to appear racist. If you can even be racist to white Scandinavian men, which I’m not sure you can be.]
Breathing steadily through my mouth in a bid to prevent the bleach smell from burning away my nostril hair, I’m all: “Um, no, sir, I was thinking I might do a bit of traveling, you know, see the world and such.”
And, to be fair, his subsequent line of questioning regarding my economic situation is probably quite legitimate, given that my grandma and I currently require more financial support than the US Army.
“So do you have money saved up to fund your flights at least?” he asks, completely unperturbed by the decades-old feather duster that’s just taken a nosedive from the top shelf behind him. As an aspiring comedian and all-round idiot, it’s very challenging for me to refrain from scoring the duster according to Olympic diving standards. 8.9 for difficulty, etc.
But back to the issue at hand: my negative bank balance. “No, sir, for I am eighteen and unemployed.”
Patiently moving the feather duster to a more secure location in his desk drawer, he shoots me a sympathetic look. A waft of moldy apple stench floats out of the open drawer, and he hastily slams it shut again. This place must violate at least a dozen health codes. Is that the patter of tiny mouse feet I hear?
“I see. And have you tried to find a job?”
“Good God, that’s brilliant!” I gasp, faux-astounded. “I had not previously considered this course of action! Have you ever considered becoming a career counselor?”
In all seriousness, this is a sore point. For the third time this year, I just handed out my résumé to every retailer, restaurant and hotel in town. But there are too few jobs and too many people, and I’m never top of the pile.
He sighs. “I know it’s stating the obvious. But, well . . . have you?”
Grinding my teeth in mild irritation, I sigh back. “Yessir, but the problem is, even the most basic entry-level jobs now require at least three years’ experience, a degree in astrophysics and two Super Bowl trophies to even be considered for an interview. Unfortunately, due to my below-average IQ and complete lack of athletic prowess, I am thus fundamentally unemployable.”
So ultimately we both agree that jet-setting to South Africa to volunteer in an elephant sanctuary, while very noble and selfless, is not a viable option at present.
Rifling through my shockingly empty file, Mr Rosenqvist then tries another tactic. “What subjects do you most enjoy in school?” He tries to disguise the flinch as he spots my grade point average.
I think about this for a while, tugging at a loose thread on the cushioned metal chair I’m perched on. “Not math because I’m not a sociopath.”
He laughs his merry Swedish laugh.
“Or science. See above.”
Another endearing chuckle.
As a feminist I feel immediately guilty because everyone is trying to encourage girls into STEM subjects now, but to be honest I’m not dedicated enough to the Vagenda to force myself to become a computer programmer. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.
The thing is, I know exactly what career I’d like to pursue, but I’m kinda scared to vocalize it. Most career counselors are interested in one thing and one thing only: getting you into college. Schools are rated higher according to the percentage of alumni who go on to get a college education, and thus career guidance is dished out with this in mind. If the Ivy Leagues don’t teach it, it’s not worth doing. And, believe it or not, the Ivy Leagues do not teach comedy.
Plus, the chances of success in my dream job are not high. Especially for a girl like me.
Rosenqvist continues his gentle coaxing. “What about English?”
Nodding noncommittally, I say, “I like English, especially the creative writing components. And drama.” Before I can talk myself out of it, I add, “Sometimes I write and perform sketches with my friends. You know, just for fun. It’s not serious or anything.” Judging by the tingling heat in my cheeks, I’ve flushed bright red.
But despite my pathetic trailing off, he loves this development. His little blond-gray mustache jumps around his face like a ferret stuck in a combustion engine.
“FANTASTIC! FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, MISS O’NEILL!” [Told you.]
So now, despite the fact that it’s not exactly a reliable career path, I have a backpack stuffed full of information on improvization troupes and drama school and theaters that accept script submissions. I’m actually pretty grateful to Rosenqvist for not immediately dismissing my unconventional career ambitions, as so many teachers have before.
He even told me about his friend who does reasonably priced headshots for high-school students. Granted, this sounds incredibly dodgy, but I am giving him the benefit of the doubt here because I would be quite upset to discover Mr Rosenqvist was earning commission by referring his students to a pedophilic photographer as a side hustle.
5.04 p.m.
On Mr Rosenqvist’s jolly recommendation, I find myself voluntarily staying behind after school to talk to Mrs Crannon, our drama teacher, about my career. Like, I am actually spending more time on campus than is absolutely necessary. Of my own free will. This is clear, unequivocal evidence that mind control is real, and that my lovely, albeit shouty, Scandinavian career advisor is in fact some sort of telepathic Dark Lord. It’s the only explanation. Well, not the only explanation. For those who do not believe in the supernatural, it is of course possible that Rosenqvist performed some sort of lobotomy on me during our session.
[For all my cynicism and wit, I do actually genuinely care about writing. But, as