Ashley-Jean

When reality hits, it usually hits hard. Hard enough to knock a twenty-three year old college graduate right on her ass. At least that’s how hard it has hit me. I remember the conversation with my academic adviser so clearly.

                “Well, I’m not really sure what I want to do. I really like writing poetry and experiencing with my creative side. But, I also like news and current events.” I said.

                “Creative-Writing/ Journalism. Stop by the English department and get the signature on these few forms.” My adviser said to me as she plopped a stack about two-and-a-half inches thick into my hands.

                That’s where this all begins. The wild goose chase I had to take to complete my secondary education to leave me working part-time at a dead end job making minimum wage. I work five days a week, and bust my ass on a sales floor, doing a job that with the technology they have today they could probably train a chimp to do. Or maybe a robot?

                “At least you’re working.” My mother says everyday when she drops me off at the front door of the store. Yes I just said that my mother brings me to work every day. Making eight bucks an hour doesn’t get you very far in today’s economy, and I am not going to get any experience in my field because all of the jobs that are offered state usually in bold print- “EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.” How is a recent college graduate supposed to get experience if someone doesn’t give that opportunity?

                Struggling every day to make ends meet and pay off student loans, I get myself out of bed every morning and out on black work pants, a white t-shirt, and a blue smock that covers everything I’m wearing. My mom starts the mini-van, and off I go every day to a dead end job, that’s not getting me experience in my field, and is barley allowing me to make ends meet.

                Welcome to my reality. I would give anything to get that one shot at the big time. Get away from blog writing, move out of my parent’s house, have my own funds, and my own place. Instead I feel stuck. Stuck like chewing gum on the bottom of the executives shoe.  That executive is keeping me from my dreams and my goals; that executive that posts job opportunities with “experience required.”

                One shot, one chance, I’ll blow you away, just wait and see. You can’t judge my personality and my skills off of a generic looking resume. Using pink font and drawing hearts and stars on it isn’t really too professional, is it?