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!

Interpreting interpretive dance and hell... a flashlight into the abyss

Last night, Josh and I went to City Center to watch Paul Taylor's three-piece modern dance production. It was flippin' classy, people wore gowns and tuxedos, so I wore my Celebrity Punk Jeans with yellow stitching, which my mom bought for me from the Macy's Junior's department (thanks for telling me this was some freakin' gala, Josh!). The entire time I was expecting interpretive dance... but then learned that modern dance and interpretive dance are not the same thing (but can be sometimes? Whatever.). Part one was, what I can only guess, a story about a group of friends who go out for dinner and all come home with horrible salmonella poisoning.

The poising is so bad that they become delirious and take part in an orgy, creating opportunities for all the men-folk to enjoy each others masculinity without any inhibitions. The next morning everyone is hung over and wondering what happened the night before. The End. 
Part two was about a threesome of a woman and two men who are abducted by aliens from an advanced planet where 80s style and synthesized music are popular. On this planet the two men realize that they are not rivals; they were only fighting over the girl to prove their masculinity to each other. They get it on. The girl is pissed. This End.
Part three was just okay. At one point, four people dressed in KKK ceremonial head gear came out to prance and stuff, which at first made me feel uneasy, but then it became silly, so, okay, but then I went back to feeling uneasy at the end.
Thank god dancers get tired super fast, unlike those damn Met opera singers who can go on for four hours, lulling me into a light sleep (which is embarrassing because sometimes I suddenly wake up and wonder if I had farted or something). Operas make me gassy.
After the show ended, I convinced Josh to take me to Mars 2112, a themed restaurant. Much to my horror, the restaurant had closed four minutes before our arrival. I felt very sad. Remember, at this point we were dangerously close to Time Square, the turd of the devil. So sad, I hastily pointed to a diner across the street and said something like, "screw it, let us go there!" Oh... how little did I know what I was dragging my disappointed butt into.
We cross the street and entered Ellen's Stardust, a 50s diner. The host walked us through the crowded restaurant to our table. I sat in between two fat tourists. It felt like a family-friendly strip club. It was a spectacle, as most things are in and near Time Square. The lighting was bright and flashy. The music was disturbingly loud. The waiters and waitresses dressed to the era and impressively karaoked pop songs in between taking orders and serving patrons. Oh geez, it was what I imagined hell to be for performance artists. The staff exemplified: shattered dreams, depression, shame, and struggle. It was the saddest display of compromise I have ever witnessed. 

The staff was a group of young, talented singers and actors waiting for their break and wasting their years of training and practice on a bunch of tourists who wanted to hear them sing Ke$ha and Jay-Z. I wanted to go, but Josh:

was fascinated. So, I ordered a drink.
The most raw, heart-breaking, Oscar-winning moment was when waiter "Beau" took a break from requests to operatically perform Puccini. His voice was incredible. THIS was the real Coyote Ugly.

His face was wrinkled and twisted as he sung at the top of his lungs. The depth of his misery, the preponderance of nachos on my plate, the circumference of the woman sitting next to me made Ellen's Stardust the saddest place on earth. So, to our waitress, Jamie Rae, and Beau and the rest, I hope life will suck less soon. The End.

Katy Perry believes in me.

I have this week off work and will hopefully get some writing done. This has not been going so well. In fact, it is not going at all.

My writer's block, I believe, can be attributed to my recent rejection from round two of submissions, and Snookie. Considering that the literary climate is currently at Vampire, non-fiction, memoirs, and chick-lit, I am not surprised that editors are as interested in publishing my book as they are in... are in... god, I don't know, I have writer's block, lets pretend I wrote something wry and clever... eating boogers. Perhaps I should just change all the characters in my book into vampires and Justin Bieber and stuff Americans are into--Bridalplasty, and it hand over to my agent for another go.

It will be a huge success.

Sometimes I can feel the dark side whispering to me in the voice of Voldemort (and sometimes Anderson Cooper for when I am feeling both desperate and sexy)... "hey, you, 'writer', I can make your dreams come true. You can get published... you can do it. It is as easy as 1, 2, 3... credit card information." What are you saying Voldemort/Anderson? "SELF PUBLISH!" NOOOOO!!! I can't! I can't! You can't make me, Voldemort! Maybe, Anderson... YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!!!

Really, I can't self-publish. Sometimes, it feels like that may be the only way in which I can ever get printed and bound, but I am as interested in self-publishing as I am in... in... eating boogers. So, I guess I will push through this writer's block, write another book, and years from now, I will try to get it published. And then if my agent tells me that I have, for the second time, failed. Well, damn it, I will write a third book! I will write ALL THE BOOKS!

I only feel optimistic because I was just listening to Katy Perry's song, Firework. Lemmetellya, that is some potent stuff because I know I'm not PMSing, so... I guess what I feel from listening to Fireworks are just emotions, regular.