So I was going to write about how I think I've got a crush on Agyness Deyn, and how it's kind of strange to crush on an actual MODEL model. About how we're all pretty well-acquainted with the relationship I have (and the connections I make) between images and sex. About how what you're seeing in a model in photographs is pretty far removed from what they'd choose to look like in the world, and how that itself is pretty far removed from anyone you'd actually KNOW or meet (unless you hang with models in which case careful with that coke, Miss Lohan).
But whatever, she's foxy. And she dresses really...uh...funny-looking, when she goes out in the world. The collision of pure, controlled image with bizarre collage-looking fashion aesthetic is kind of refreshing. Anyway, I had a dream where she was a ski lift attendant.
Now that I've been doing what I've been doing with the rest of the day, since I put off everything, including textual narcissism, I've decided that I'd rather bitch about that. Namely, Writing Cover Letters. Who can imagine a more contrived, codified crock of shit than the cover letter. I mean it. You go to some FORMAT website, and it's like playing Mad Libs with bits and pieces of your resume in order to get a job. Except it isn't funny (except perhaps to the HR staff who crumple up all your pretty little lies and try to score some sick three-pointers in a game of resume H-O-R-S-E). I guess what it really amounts to is showing your willingness to toe the line and consent to the ABJECT BULLSHIT of THE JOB MARKET.
Guten tag, English Major. Arbeit Macht Frei.