the everyday adventures of sabrina

an article leads to an interesting discussion via comments on the impact of blogging (and other persistant network-detritus of your personal life) on getting a job.

for the record: i (a) did list my blog (and stats) on my most recently-written resume, and (b) tend to believe that if an employer is wise enough to google me, he or she are allowed to take into account what they find — and, further, if someone doesn’t want to hire me because i say “fuck” too much on my blog, that’s just as well because i say “fuck” pretty much just as often in real life. as a matter of fact, i’m just about as opinionated and blunt, and self-deprecating and insecure, in real life as i am here. all those times i posted something like “ARRRRRRRRGH,” in bold-faced type? i threw my arms up in the air and shouted it as well — possibly, i also made “i’m going to strangle you/him/her/them” gestures in accompaniment. i’m a very WYSIWYG human.

so i’m sitting here listening to the radio and one of the endless “best of 2004″ spots plays, and the announcer goes, “and what will 2005 bring us?”

i think, “more of the same.” and i smile as i realize that that’s not at all, in any way, a bad thing.

despite everything, you know, i’m actually pretty happy with my life. i could do without any broken wrists from here on out, but really, things are pretty good. i love my city, my neighborhood, and my apartment. i love my workplace (even if my job makes me crazy) and my coworkers. i have enough money to feed the monkey on my back by buying music when i want it. i own the coolest car ever, and have access to one of the world’s best transit systems when i don’t want to drive. i have good friends that send me happy birthday emails and make me smile. i’m no good at playstation games, but that’s okay because it still amuses me when i’m playing at a friend’s house (even if i really, really can never remember the name of the silly sticky-ball game and always want to call it Kobayashi Maru). i have a cozy down comforter on my bed, and nobody bitches at me if i steal all of it and rip all the sheets off the mattress too. and i have a decent bottle of port in the fridge and pretty glasses to drink it out of.

plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose — but sometimes la même chose is a pretty damned good chose.