Boston, you scare me.

Recently, I relocated to Boston to go to school. My studio apartment is located in the North End, a community rich in history (Paul Revere rode through my neighborhood!--not recently or anything), Italian restaurants (why don't any of you take card?!), dumb tourists, uneven/narrow roads, tiny side streets, and notable landmarks that I haven't really checked out yet, but they are definitely there. People tell me there is much to love about this place because it is cute and has that "European"-feel. If "European" means "someone is going to stab you in a dark alley" or "ghosts are going to eat you" or "this street is just quiet because the person who was here before you is now locked in some car's trunk and will soon be harvested for organs" or "this sewer leakage is actually human juice from the funeral home", then yes, North End has a "European"-feel.

My walk home from school involves me crossing a funeral home with business at all hours of the day and a cemetery as old as this country (which is not THAT old, but old enough to look extremely creepy). This is bullshit. What the freak, man?! My quarter-life crisis obsession with and rejection of death did not ask for exposure therapy. I was going to go through the more conventional avenue of cognitive behavioral therapy.

I do not enjoy this. Fortunately, about two hours ago I discovered a new, longer way home to avoid this nonsense.

The first night in my new apartment was, to say the least, horrifying. The building I live in, like all others in the area, is flippin' old. Ancient! Built in the late 1800s, this little brick building has seen some major stuff go down, such as the molasses flood of 1919. My squeaky floors are distorted and slanted. It is like living in a fun house except the fun stops when I realize this is actually where I live. Anyway, the first night--I was startled awake by sporadic scratching sounds. My echolocation told me that the sounds were coming from the closet. Yes, of course, the closet! The source of all nightmares! In my blurry dream-conscious state, I was briefly concern that the scratching noise came from a ghost, or possibly ghosts. This scared the shit out of me for two reasons (1) what if it tries to kill me? (2) I don't believe in ghosts! This is not in line with my beliefs! There is no scientific evidence supporting ghosts! Why am I even considering ghosts as a possibility?!

I oscillated between fear and humility for about three hours throughout the night.

I concluded that the sounds were probably coming from rats, rats living in the walls of my apartment. At three in the morning this made sense. I live in an area with tons of restaurants=rats are living in the walls of my apartment. I was not as scared after concluding that the scratching sounds were produced by rats trying to break through the plaster. I figured that once the rats get into the kitchen they will see that I don't have any food. They will then promptly leave without hurting me. They will only hurt me if they know I am awake and watching them. I will pretend to be asleep, so they can carry on their business and leave me be. I will kill them tomorrow.

In the morning I investigated. With a clear head, I was skeptical about my rat theories and still pissed at myself for truly believing in ghosts haunting the apartment.
Let me get to the ending real quick before my laptop runs out of power.

It was the blinds. The window was open and there was a storm and a crap ton of wind... The sounds came from the blinds. I even reproduced the scratching sounds.

ARGH: A Story About Forgiveness.

This morning, like most of my unemployed mornings, I woke up super late and watched Seinfeld for an hour while getting dressed and ready. While applying crap-tons of makeup onto my face, I thought about purchasing bus tickets to see the Vans in Boston, moving the black shirt I have sitting out in the dining room to the hamper, having breakfast at N&Wu, needing to text Lauren about dinner at some point, buying new liquid eyeliner, figuring out what NARS stands for if it stands for anything at all, finishing the last 527 pages of that Franzen book later, charging my laptop in case I decide to go to Hungarian, and for all you labor department people out there, finding a job because that is also very important, if not the most important of all the things that I need to be doing, yes--my brain is just full of thoughts on everything all-the-time-always-about-everything-all-the-time like nobody's business.
But then suddenly, breaking my usual routine, a smell... I was in the dining room when struck with a pungent, noxious stink. I checked the litter box but it was clearly clean and empty. I walked around sniffing the air, wondering, "where the fuck is that smell coming from?"

Like a hound dog I scampered all over the apartment determined to identify the source of the offensive odor. For a moment, I entertained the idea that it was a metaphorical manifestation of my unemployed uselessness. In an overly dramatic manner, the universe was trying to tell me that my lazy-ass lifestyle is deplorable. Then, I crept toward the hallway leading to the front door. Suddenly, there it was... next to my precious shoes... my precious, precious shoes...

Bio-terrorism!

I screamed for Josh to come "help" me clean it up--or if we are not speaking in code, "clean it up entirely". A LOT OF POOP!!! EW!!! I knew exactly who the culprit was, no doubt about it. Luna-cat is far too concerned with hygiene to ever do such a thing, but Sri-cat, well, Sri has a history of vile shenanigans. Without any signs of remorse, Sri watched me run around the apartment, my arms flailing with anger and repulsion (like those wacky advertising wind dancers in front of car dealerships). Perfectly aware of the limits to his intelligence, I lectured anyway. I was so mad! It was obvious that he was trying to poop inside my brown heels (Oh, Sri, you are a clever color-coordinating schemer) because both shoes had fallen over, most likely from his attempt at squatting on them. I have some baller detective skills.

Once I said everything I had to say and made all of the ridiculous groundless threats I had to make--"What's wrong with you? I'm going to put you out on the fire escape! How'd you like that? Why did you do this? Are you mad at me? ARGH! There are plenty of cats out there who would kill to live like you! I fed you a can of tuna in addition to dry food two nights ago! CHUNKY TUNA! Next time I am going to spray bottle you! SPRAY BOTTLE!!!"--I gathered my things in a rage and left. The walk to N&Wu calmed me down a bit. As I schlumped down Broardway, Sri was probably lounging in his usual spot behind the door in the bedroom without a clue that I was furious.
I suppose having a cat is a lot like having a kid. He does major-crazy-ballz things, but you suppress the urge to spray him with water from a squirt bottle, and instead, get some coffee, have some sympathy for his cluelessness, and move on because unemployment is short and 527 pages of Franzen is long.

What have I been doing?!

My 25th birthday is coming up this Tuesday, as most people might know from of my constant reminders and messages and emails and texts, and now, this post. A whole quarter-century has passed and what the flip have I done?

Ugh, twenty-five, that is an actual grown-up age. When I was a kid I thought by 25 I would be working as a glamorous pharmacist, married to either Freddie Prinze Jr. or Prince William or Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and buying stuff with my own money, like land and patio furniture and a laserdisc player and the Spice Girls album and corduroy overalls. I also dreamt of purchasing an old power plant and living in it because I had so much money I needed to be humbled... JTT and I would sew our own clothes and I would say stuff like, "did you bring home coal from the coal forest to heat our stove for dinner?" Whatever.

Our neighbor's tortoise used to get lost in our front yard... tortoises live longer than people. I don't know exactly which species of tortoises, but there are definitely certain kinds out there that can outlive humans--up to probably 150 years or something. Our neighbor's tortoise was probably not one of these super tortoises, and if it were--it was too adventurous, so it's most likely dead now--or lost, or soup, who knows. I think many people, particularly Josh, Kyle, and Radim, have heard this complaint. It makes me sad that I cannot live as long as tortoises. Tortoises are not worthy of such long lives! Death is--oh my god, Sri (the cat) is trying to dig a cheese puff out of my loafer, so cute!--death is going to happen one day and it makes me sad that I have already spent 25 years of my life. If I am lucky, I will live up to 95... or up to whenever I completely lose control of my bowel movements, which will probably be around 90 or 95. However, there are crap loads of things that can kill me before old-age.

AND to make matters worst, I do not have an afterlife or a religion to calm my nerves (disclaimer: this is not an invitation to convert me, people). It is straight into the ground after all this! Crap! I refuse to be compost! Something about becoming 25 is really making me think about my own mortality. Some people will argue that I am being ridiculous and that 25 is not old... well, I am not saying that 25 is old, jerks. I am saying that it is the beginning of adulthood (none of this 18 year-old business, no one is an adult at 18 or 21! That's nuts!) and adulthood leads into geriatricism, which leads to death. Major companies now agree that I have gathered enough sapience and real-world experience to rent a car... a whole flippin' car... a machine as big as a rhinoceros. People trust me with rhinoceroses!

 Well, on that note, I look forward to my birthday party Tuesday. And if I have not said it enough... there is going to be

a pinata to distract me from the fact that I am getting old and will die in 70 years if I am lucky enough to avoid assassination, disease, freak accidents, and dangerous animals/insects.

Funemployment (stole the term from Jared)!

Three weeks after putting in my resignation letter, I got laid off. I saw it coming because three days before my awkward lay-off, the administrators called us in for an emergency meeting. While others sensed impending doom, I thought we were going to get an elevator installed and was really excited. "We are going to have to evacuate and not work while they install the new elevator! YAY!"

Nope. Budget cuts. In the words of Liz Lemon, "Shut it down." Well, shut half of it down. I knew I was going to be in the shut down half--it would only be rational. I went through a small roller coaster of emotions: ambivalence, concern, and then extreme excitement.


The next Monday I was called into the office. It felt very official... and awkward.

I put on a sad face because being laid off is generally a bad thing. It was hard.

I shrugged a lot and thank a few people for the opportunity, "Thank you for the opportunity."

Since then:

Yes, I am currently looking for a new job everyday all the time everyday, Mr. NYC department of labor.

Children and Pigeons: carriers of diseases

Today I am sick and I will not be going to work. I am pretty sure I called in to tell them that I will be absent, but I might have also imagined it... if that is the case, I might be out of a job tomorrow... but I am pretty sure I called in. Right? I don't know. What have I gained form this experience? Children are like pigeons.

I thought I was invincible. Children's germs turn out to be very potent. Just because I am larger than the children I work with it apparently does not mean that I am above whatever virus or disease they may carry. Like pigeons, children are small but their nastiness knows no bounds. Like pigeons, children are efficient vehicles for a range of diseases. I feel so fragile... Oh, how the might has fallen! I do not let pigeons lick my hands because I think it is unsanitary, so, I should not let children do so either for the same reason.

What should I do with my sick day? Staying home all day will give me cabin fever, which will cause ridiculous food delivery orders, which will cause stomach ache, which will cause another sick day, which will cause an endless cycle. I think I will take some drugs and go to the movies. I might smuggle in my Snuggie.

You invited to my Royal Weddin'

Many of us are very excited about the upcoming Royal Wedding between Prince William and the Catherine that is not me. Some of us might even wake up as early as 4am est this Friday to watch the thing. I know I will try to--my vision might be obstructed by tear-soaked tissues, but whatever, I am totally over him, like, totally, I don't care anymore, just watch me throw away all of the pictures of him that I had clipped from Time magazine (my parents only allowed me to subscribe to Time and Newsweek). While many have been anticipating this ceremony since the engagement was announced--some time after my brilliant idea for a taxidermy workshop--I have been waiting since I was fourteen. However, running completely counter to how I had envisioned this wedding so long ago, I am not the bride! What the fuck?! At the sweet, deranged age of fourteen, I really thought I was going to marry Prince William one day, or at least hook up with him, you know? I knew there were going to be obstacles because of the distance and the age difference... I was fourteen and he was, like, eighteen. I consulted my French/SAT tutor about my situation and he said that it was not impossible for me to date Prince William. With that glimmer of hope, I started planning my future with Prince William. I decided that I would have to meet him first so he could fall in love with me at first sight... Looking back... was he really going to fall in love with this?

No, this business took time to love. My love for Prince William blinded me of what I looked like...a dorky swamp monster that almost failed fifth grade because she made a pop-up book instead of writing an essay on John James Audubon. So, I continued on with my wedding plans. I decided I would have my parents take me to the UK for a family vacation. Once there, I was going to get all dressed up and get hit by Prince William's car--not badly hit, just enough to knock me unconscious. I logically reasoned that the fear of press coverage would force him to take me back to the castle, instead of a hospital. There, he would wait until I woke up to sign a confidentiality agreement. While waiting, he would fall in love with me. I figured, after waking up, he and I would have a meaningful conversation, a type of conversation that would make him think, "wow, she is really cool. I want to be her boyfriend and kiss her with my eyes closed and my hands on her waist like a slow dance."
Had he asked me to marry him for realz, I would have thrown a baller wedding. But hey, dreams can come true... which is why:

YOU INVITED TO MY ROYAL WEDDIN'!!!
My bridesmaids are: Jon Hamm, Anderson Cooper, and the guy from all those Mentalist posters. The wedding in my parents' backyard will be followed by a reception of bagel bites, Zing crunchy snacks, dosas, and cheese. Hope you can make it!
If you can't make it to my royal wedding, then please come to the taxidermy workshop on May 28 at 10am. Admission is $375.

Work physically hurts, but I am okay with that.

Work has been going well. While waking up at 6:30am seems like a sick and inhumane form of corporal punishment, I learned how to deal with it... oh, how humans can learn to adjust to almost anything! What keeps me going is the fact that in 6 months I will be back in school. Until then:

I will be bitten.

I will be scratched... scratched so bad that strangers stop me on the street to ask what happened (yes, this happened).

It is fortunate that the feistiest child is also the most good-looking and likable.

I have told a few of my co-workers that I will be leaving in half a year. I did not intend to tell anyone at work, but I am bad at lying and we have an alliance now. During lunch, the day after I had called in sick to go to a graduate program's meet-and-greet, a co-worker asked me how things were yesterday and where I was. My answer was vague, which made him ask further if I was trying to be secretive. I did not want him to think that I was absent because of something embarrassing like... diarrhea (my bowel movements are healthy), so I told him the truth--eh, screw it, he's in school himself. As I am slowly observing, there is a high turn-over among teachers at this school, so my eventual resignation will be statistically consistent and inoffensive.

Looking back to September-now, back to the stress that I was undergoing while researching, GRE-preping, Statement of Purpose-writing,  application response-waiting (hurrah www.thegradcafe.com which made the wait both tougher and easier), I feel accomplished, which is not something that I can say very often... because I am so flippin' modest and stuff. It was hard work! It took three application seasons to get me into grad school! Hell, I had to go through a master's program to get into grad school! Yes, that translates to: going to grad school to go to grad school. And now, all of it is done and I am finally going to go to school. I am pretty happy and grateful.

What could only make me happier now is... going to Mars 2112 (a Mars-themed restaurant) with Jessica... Oh, wait, that is what I am doing tonight! Wohoo!