I decided to bite the bullet and apply for what I thought was my dream job. Don’t get me wrong, I’m chomping at the bit to get out there and do my trainer thang. The only thing standing in my way is the other chick that applied (who also happens to be one of management’s pets). What gets to me is she carries herself so well. I kind of just wing my way through presentations. Everyone in my team thinks I am a shoe-in for this job.

My job application sucked the cerebral lifeblood out of me. If I could use one word to describe it, it would be “hardcore”. The Peroni guzzling angel that I had mentioned in a previous blog post gave me a firm kick up the arse and a whole lot of advice. I am so thankful to know someone like him.

My interview will be sometime next week (depending on how much hilarious mileage the recruiter gets out of reading me babble on and on about “speed of competency”)

I spent the majority of today doing a lot of soulsearching as to whether I still have the energy to become a trainer. At the moment, my job has well and truly burnt me out. I’ve been doing the same thing for four years. Sometimes I think that it would just be easier to give Little Miss Management’s Pet the job. Who’d want me, my pinstripes and bouncy attitude anyway?

I’m sorry, dear customer. I can understand how you must be feeling because you’ve been waiting in the phone queue for more than four minutes and have to be subjected to a very lacklustre sounding recorded message telling you that if you don’t pay up on time, you’re effectively screwed. The thing is, I can either whiz through the call previous to yours and either confuse that customer or piss them off even more than they already are.

Next time you call through and get annoyed for having to wait an extra thirty seconds to ask your usually stupid question, please remember that shouting at me will usually make me go into very scary robot mode and you don’t want that….you DON’T want that. My monotonous voice has been knowing to cause great distress among friends, family and my darling ex.

Bored out of my skull, I’m sitting here on what is a scorcher of an evening in the melbournegirl bunker of pseudo-doom™ downing Peroni, listening to 65daysofstatic and thinking about life on other planets. Alcohol makes me think about weird shit and how it all connects back to how lonely I am. When one of your old mentors calls you “socially inept” just because you were the kid in school that had no friends and spent recess and lunchtime in a corner of the playground sobbing your eyes out, it can stick to you like glue even after being away from that hellhole for what seems like eons.

Loneliness chews away at my insides like bad beer (hello Carlton Draught) and as desperate as I am to find some group to belong to and have friends whom I can hang out with, there’s that fear. It’s the fear of letting go for a few hours. It’s the fear of feeling so self conscious about the way I look. It’s the fear of being judged. It’s the fear that takes me back to that meeting with my high school mentor in the social-welfare room. It’s the fear that not being up with all the web 2.0/social media hullabaloo. It’s the fear of knowing that I’ll either sit there without much to say or I’ll freak out and run away.

It’s the fear of being human and how that fear ultimately killed my best friend. The fear of rejection and acceptance.

So I’m wondering what life on other planets must be like. It sure as hell must be easier than this.

I’m not the most confident of women personality wise. Too many niggling doubts in my mind, y’see. Ever since I joined Twitter back in June 2007, I’ve been writing a whole lot more outside of good ol’ 140 character limit land but I feel like the world’s biggest inarticulate bimbo sometimes. This letter is pretty much written in the way I speak. I tweet it as I think it and as I would more than likely say it. Random 140 character limited cerebral flatulence. Hmm, did I write the word “flatulence”?

Anyway, you’re pretty cool and damn talented. I’m still amazed that you are someone whom I’ve known of for a while but never thought that you’d also be on Twitter. Morning commutes to my place of lunacy, I mean, employment have been spent checking out your tweets on the train. It’s a delicious commuting combination – Propagandhi’s “How To Clean Everything” album and your tweets.

One of these days I might come out of my little shell and ask if you’d like to come out for a beer with me. Be warned though, I’m not a huge fan of local beer, so there is the likelihood that I’ll be downing the Asahi and babbling like a vacuous airhead. Ok, ok, not so much an airhead but I’m EXTREMELY shy.

Cheers for understanding and cheers for being an awesome Twitter friend.

Peace, love and potatocakes,

- @melbournegirl