No one knows this about me. But when I have the evening off and I retire to my room for the night, I go in with the intention of writing.
Well no. Not just anything. I go in with the intention of actually starting to write a story. What actually happens is I write a blog post, read a book, or just pass out. Instead, I want to write something cohesive. Something that makes sense. More importantly, I want to write something that I can go back to and work on over a period of time. I swear there are so many ideas, and I have no problem organizing every other area of my life except for when it comes to my own thoughts. I know, I know. This could be a problem for someone that actually wants to sit down and write a real piece with a beginning, middle, and end for no other reason than my own satisfaction. (Clearly I have issues with procrastination when it comes to this life goal.) I need a plan of action. Advice is always welcome.
Wonderfulness has taken over. Ladies and gentleman, perhaps if you complain enough good things will happen. Perhaps if you are an impatient, obsessive-compulsive, control freak things will happen the way you want them to. Perhaps, I am right. But I digress…
I have a J-O-B.
It doesn’t begin for another couple of weeks, but I am absolutely ecstatic about it. I don’t want to expand too much on this blog for reasons that are slightly above my maturity level, but mostly because I suppose that is unprofessional. Which means that I will most likely continue to write about things I can’t be held accountable for i.e., my family, friends, total strangers, and random thoughts.
I’ve been mildly entertaining for this long, right?
I feel like I’m not “here” right now. Does that make remotely any sense? I’m currently at my internship, but I’m so unaware of my surroundings and obsessed with my e-mails and my job applications that I forgot where I was. After about an hour of listening to music–headphones on–I decide to look up and, voila! Magazines, random novelty toys, and beauty products surround me. I am at my internship…not my bed, not my local coffee shop, not anywhere else.
I feel a little lost I guess. I’ve come to New York to begin this life, but I’ve begun an entirely different life then I had planned, and now the original life that I’m still trying to achieve has little time to become realized. Again I ask you: Does that make remotely any sense?
After speaking to a friend online earlier today, I began thinking about even more uncertain things than I had been before. This is not necessarily a bad or worrisome thing. Thinking is good. Thinking about what will happen to me next week versus this week. There is something congruently pleasant and totally sad about me hoping that perhaps next week my life will be completely different from my life this week. This week I am an unpaid intern with a bachelor’s degree who waitresses at a pizza place. Who knows what I may be next week! Most likely though…I will still be an unpaid intern with a bachelor’s degree who waitresses at a pizza place. And you know what? Maybe I should just start to accept that this is life for a while and be able to be happy with the status quo.
Some obsessive compulsive part of me is telling me that that kind of thinking would be wrong. If you’re unhappy with your situation, you change it. But never being happy with any situation is also a recipe for disaster. So where do you draw the line between being a motivated, self-starter and just always wanting more? Is it good to always want more? And perhaps the real balance to aim for is where you still always want more but can still be happy with what you have?
I’m sorry if I’ve made you think too much. But this is what goes on in my head ALL DAMN DAY. Yea, I know. One day when I’ve figured it all out, I’m going to write a self-help book; and you’re all going to buy it and read it from cover to cover. You’re going to be amazed at my “living life-skills.” Just you wait.
I love when I’m in moods like the one I’m currently in. It usually happens with the perfect amount of coffee. It’s a slight caffeine buzz, but without the shakes.
I’ve been sitting in the same cafe for three hours now. I’ve had three 12 oz. glasses, and I plan on stopping relatively soon. Tonight I’m meeting with a cousin that I haven’t seen since I was probably 14 or 15 years old. She’s been living in New York for two years, and I’m the inexperienced, young newcomer looking for guidance.
Speaking of guidance, are you aware that life coaches actually exist? My friend Cristina once met one of these people on a plane and still keeps in close contact with the individual to this day. While it sounds a little new-age for my taste–I could be into this. I am one of the most indecisive people ever, and while a life coach would surely not help me form my own decisions, (or would they?) he or she would certainly point me in the right direction. If anyone is considering taking on life coaching professionally in the future and would like a guinea pig to practice on, I’m available.
[post notes: After publishing this post and reading it again, I can now see how coffee makes my mind go totally spastic. There is absolutely zero effort put into even attempting to form transitions from one thought to the next. Sorry folks. I will do better.]
Today marks day 29 on my quest to find a job. Job hunting is kind of like what I would imagine dating to be for ugly people who have too high of standards. You have that dream occupation in mind and you’re not willing to settle for less. You start off really confident. I will get that job. I am perfect for it. Then you realize that the only people that get jobs like those are the ones who “slept around” with everyone involved with the position, thus getting an in when some people who may really deserve it and are ready for such a responsibility remain as waitresses–I mean, remain unemployed. (This has nothing to do with me, obviously.) I have probably applied to over 30 jobs, had two interviews, and arranged two informational interviews. These informational interviews, while not meant for the purpose of securing employment, actually leave me the most satisfied. I’m at ease because there is no fear of rejection, and the editorial assistants that I meet are genuinely nice. I think they relate to my tales of despair in a world with too many writers and not enough writing positions.
And now, perhaps because my day of interning is over and I actually have the night off from work, optimism has decided to trickle into my prose. –A rarity to those of you familiar with the way my mind works. As cliché and romanticized as this will sound, in the back of my mind I know it’s the truth: Years from now I will be looking back at these moments of humiliation, desperation, and lack of funds as some of the most wonderful and humbling times I will ever face. A friend recently wrote to me in an e-mail, that if it were easy, everyone would move out to New York and be fabulous. How true. Honestly, I had been telling myself for nearly a year now that I would move out to New York, be poor, work really hard for a while in order to secure a position, and make life happen from there. At no point did I naively think: With my credentials, I should have no problem getting a job. So I guess this post is my way of rationally telling my mind to stop being so masochistic and punishing me for not yet having found my very own 401k plan with health benefits.
I am not an ugly person with high standards. I just haven’t slept with the right people yet.
OK, so I think I might have a staring problem. Something tells me that I probably got this weird disorder from my mother, who has been known to stare. That’s another story for another time though. Moving on:
I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’m pretty sure that my staring problem increases when I’m riding the subway alone. It’s like my eyes don’t know where to look! When someone is riding the subway with you, you look at them and have a conversation. However, when I’m by myself, I just sit there with my little iPod and gawk at those around me. I don’t even necessarily stare at people I think are attractive. Most of the time its the people with a twitching problem or ugly shoes on that leave me mesmerized for seconds at a time. Then I get paranoid though because I don’t want those people to know I’m having trouble averting my glare from them–so I look away. But you know what? Ten seconds later, my eyes are right back on those twitchers and Teva-wearing passengers. It’s a disease, and I think I might just get my ass kicked for it one day.
A simple solution to this problem to anyone other than me would be to bring a book or magazine along for the ride. I have, in fact tried this before. Nonetheless, I look up and glance around me, then come back down to the book. I read a couple sentences, and I look up again! Am I alone in being a lone starer? Please say it isn’t so.
This weekend some very good friends came up from DC to enjoy the 21st birthday festivities of a fellow AUer here in the city. The party was held in this beautiful old home in Brooklyn Heights overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline. Is it sad that everyone compared the evening to an episode of Gossip Girl or Marie Antoinette as opposed to simply taking it for what it was–a well-organized, champagne infused, over the top dance party?
Call me nostalgic and cliché, but it was one of those evenings that will not soon be forgotten. Even if there was copious amounts of alcohol.
Moving on from my life where I pretend to be a socialite once every business cycle, we arrive at my day-to-day life as a commoner. There are certain cultural advantages I get to experience that those who are better off will simply never know of. Take for instance the subway. Why, just the other day I witnessed a man with a razor blade shaving his face only a mere three feet from me. Some might condemn such behavior, deeming it uncouth. If you think about it though, this lowly peasant cared enough about his outward appearance to take a moment and beautify himself prior to making it to his morning engagement.
And here’s something for all of you who enjoy a scandal. I may be relatively poor right now, but like those young, Hollywood starlets I was involved in my very first sexual harassment dispute last night! Leave it to a couple of drunk and middle-aged male customers at a “fine-dining” establishment to tap your bottom and grab your arm when asking for the check. But hey! They sure did tip well. Everyone wins.