Catharticity

Update

2006-10-17T18:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it's been a while. So, here's the quick update. I have a job writing and designing for a marketing department in Chicago. I work in the Loop. I wear suits, well sometimes. I also have a one room apartment near Wrigley Field.

Last week I was the first to stumble upon a women who jumped from her highrise balcony. Her head had exploded and was all over the sidewalk in front of White Hen. I still feel sick. More will be written about it later.

2006-07-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

For the past 22 years or so, I've always had a plan. After preschool, it was elementary school. Then onto middle school and high school. After high school, it was a no-brainer that I go to college. I chose Mizzou because it's known for its J-school and seemed the perfect distance away from home. I've always known that I wanted to be a writer ever since I won the Writing Wizard award in 5th grade. And, it seemed so reachable from the school I chose, the grades I received (I graduated Cum Laude) and the amazing connections I gained through professors.

But, now I sit here on a rainy Friday in a suburb of Chicago without a plan. During a month and a half after graduation I applied for every job posting that even mentioned journalism. Two hundred and four resumes later, I'm still jobless. Jobless was not part of the plan.

The worst thing about it though, is that after four years of dedicating myself to J-school, I don't want to do journalism anymore. I hate reporting. I hate editing. I hate New York. I hate the people who use "watch-dogging" to describe their profession. And I hate most of the bitter has-beens who run the Missourian. But most of all, I hate that the people who supposed to fuel my love for writing, took it away.

I've always had a plan, but it was never my own. My parents urged me to go to college, to get good grades, to become a journalist. All four years of college were laid out for me by my advisor and the J-school curriculum. And my writing was constructed by my professors. Even my "creative" writing professor overlooked the creative side of my stories in search for its "social issue." I'm sorry, but there is no social issue about my Thai massage. It's just funny damn it. Who puts a feminist writer for Ms.magazine as a professor for a creative writing class?

But now that I have graduated, I have to create my own plan. The hardest part is ignoring the forceful suggestions of my parents, the cowardly drawbacks from my friends and the inadequate advice from my former professors and doing what I want to do. Even if it means spending money to go to grad school in London, buying a condo in Chicago or writing what I want the way that I want. Or maybe not even having a plan at all.

What's Wrong with You People?

2006-04-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in Design lab at the moment, and the entire room smells like patchouli. What is it with hippies in the J-school? Please take a shower instead of soaking yourself in foul smelling liquid that reminds me of wet dog and worms. Thank you.

Oh, and the other day, two German shepards got loose and crossed over Main Street, and this college-aged girl from a car screams, "Oh My God, Wolves!" How do these people get into college?

It's Really Early...or Really Late

2006-04-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

I just arrived home from Buffalo Wild Wings on Wednesday night. I have to read for NPR tomorrow and I have a huuuuuuge design project due in a few days, but alas, I went out on a Wednesday night. After a few hours of karoke and $2 wells, I am sufficiently drunk. And, to my surprise, my Mary Poppins purse has been stuffed full of menus, beer glasses, and even a bottle of ketchup. So, here I sit at 1:00 am on an early Thursday morning with a bottle of ketchup. These are the things I'm going to miss. In three weeks, I will no longer be a college student, and most likely will not be returning home from a bar with a bottle of ketchup in my massive purse. And, it will not be with these people.

My brother's 26th birthday was today, and I imagine myself in four years and fail to see anything. I have no idea what lies ahead. Hopefully London and a great career, but things are a lot easier said than done. But I hope, that wherever I end up, I end up coming home one night with a bag full of surprises on an inconvenient weekday night. Even if that means my beloved leather wallet will be covered in ketchup.

Realizations Atop a Box

2006-04-06T15:51:00.000-07:00

Last week was spring break, and I went to Miami. In the middle of the week, on a Wednesday night, somewhere between my fifth and sixth moijito and still managing to balance on my stiletto heels atop a box in Crobar, I realized two things. Realization number one: my friends are not as fun as me and I need to find more fun friends. It's spring break, the last one ever, and it's just implied that you should dance on the bar for free shots. My friends disagree so I am left to dance alone. Realization number two: I'm not okay with graduating and getting a boring job in a boring town doing something boring like most of my friends are.

I read a book a few months ago called The Tender Bar and in it J.R. Moehringer writes: 'Think about fear, decide right now how you're going to deal with fear, because fear is going to be the great issue in your life. Fear will be the fuel for all your success, and the root cause of all your failures, and the underlying dilemma in every story you tell yourself about yourself. And the only chance you'll have against fear? Follow it. Steer by it. Don't think of fear as the villian. Think of fear as your guide.'

Well, I'm terrified to graduate, and I'm even more terrified to do what I want after I graduate. But, I think it's something that I have to do, and if I don't I will regret it. So, my plan is to move to London for a year. I've applied for some jobs, but I think I'm going to do an PR internship part-time and work at a pub the rest of the time. To be honest, I'm not sure how I'm going to manage financially, but I will.

Most people think I'm nuts. They say they would never do it. Well, that's why I'm different. These are the same people who thought I was nuts for going to Thailand when I was 18, for moving to London with a bunch of people I didn't know, for moving in with my boyfriend in London. While it didn't all go well all the time, these were the times that defined who I am and taught me more about myself and my capabilites than any other time in my life. And these were the times I actually enjoyed life. These were the times that I was the most happy, the times when I was actually living life. There's something to be said for the exhilaration that accompanies the heartache of being homeless in London for two and half weeks, simply because I'd never done it before. It was new. It was exciting. It was hard.

Not many people are willing to face the fear of doing what is outside their comfort zone - I am. I'm not okay with simply pushing my way through life waiting for the weekend because it's easy. So, I'm going to move to London and find happiness through hardness.

Plus, I like British boys better than American ones.

Oh, We Forgot To Mention That

2006-03-06T11:47:00.000-08:00

They lied. The magazine sequence at Mizzou is a sham. From our freshmen year on, we are told that Mizzou is one of the most pretigious journalism schools in the nation, and it competes with Northwestern for the #1 spot. However, this is not the view shared in the magazine world outside of Missouri. One editor flat out told us that most editors in NY don't know anything about Mizzou, so it doesn't really mean anything. One editor asked what Mizzou is a good school for. Awesome. Thanks for mentioning that Mizzou.

Homeless Harry

2006-01-31T22:23:00.000-08:00

Every day he sat on the same set of stairs. He’d be there when you left for work, and he’d be there when you came home. Day in and day out, he sat on the steps at the end of Hogarth Street, quiet and alone. His presence was as familiar and overlooked as the lingering smell of curry from the Indian restaurant around the corner, or the rats that roamed about behind it. He wore a tan colored trench coat over a variety of colorful layers muted by dust and dirt. His face showed years of hardship as it was marred by hundreds of tiny canyons that left intricate trails along his forehead and cheeks. A long white beard hung from his chin, and a matching tuft of hair sat upon his head. But it was his eyes that I remember the most. They were a light blue, like the color of a bright blue sweater that has been subjected to years in the wash. Inside them swirled pools of sorrow, and yet they appeared to be so empty. It was only when I would say a casual hello to him as I passed on my way to and from work that the faded blue seemed to brighten.

Maybe Design Will Work Out...

2006-01-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

I have spent four years studying something that I don't know if I can do. Sitting in my writing capstone class today, it hit me: maybe I made a really big mistake. My original plan was to go into advertising, maybe I should have stuck to it. I don't know if I'm cut out for this whole writing thing. I'm not creative. I don't have really deep meanings to my writing. I have no idea what my "moment of being" is. And I'm not funny. Not funny at all. So what am I doing as a writer? I struggle with story ideas and struggle even more writing stories. It took me 3 hours today to write a cover letter. I don't whip up stories like almost everyone else in my class. Writing is hard for me. Extremely hard. Just look at the dribble I write on this blog. And the thing is I can't even write what I want to write. I don't have the balls. I want to write about my Thailand mishaps for my radio commentary, but I can't. I don't think anyone will think it's funny. I'll get to the punchline of the story and people will gasp in disgust, not laugh. I want to be good at this, and I hope that I can prove that I really am by the end of this semester. If not, maybe design will work out.

Bon Jovi & Cupcakes

2006-01-18T19:25:00.000-08:00

Only four more months left in Missouri, and thank God. This town is full of weirdos. I also get into a lot of bar fights around here.

Last night my neighbors and I went to a private party at the Blue Fugue. I was kind of pumped because our entrance was very James Bond like, as we had to whisper a password to the bouncer guarding the door in the alley. But, my hopes died when the bartender told me they didn't have any tonic water. Instead, he hands me a warm vodka club soda. No lime. No straw. No ice.

We gather at a table and slowly sip our watered down warm drinks. After about 30 minutes, we all got tired of our warm drinks and the omnipotent smell of patchouli. As we put our coats on, a cupcake flies across the room and hits Grace smack on her chest, covering her black sweater in purple icing.

Two questions here: a) Why use purple icing on a cupcake and b) WHO THE HELL THROWS A CUPCAKE, HONESTLY?

Grace, being the quiet Asian that she is, simply wipes off some of the icing and heads to the bathroom. I turn to the table that has a pan of purple iced cupcakes on it.

"I think it was Bon Jovi who threw the cupcake," I said, referring the man at the head of the table with wavy chin-length hair, a torn t-shirt, pre-holed jeans and a beaten leather coat. Needless to say, Bon Jovi was not happy about my comment. He angrily tossed his locks as if he were walked straight out of an episode of Melrose Place. He then preceded to cuss me, his tirade infused with "man" and "dude".

These are the people I deal with here; Bon Jovi look-alikes who throw cupcakes. Ah, only until May.

Ho, Ho, Ho...I Need A Bottle Of Rum

2005-12-13T22:48:00.000-08:00

What is about Christmas that makes people crazy? The past few days, my life has been aongoing episode of Laguna Beach (except the plot line is way better and the people are way cooler), and I blame it all on the craziness that now seems to be a Christmas season staple. It all started with the insaness of Friday night, which involved inappropriate come-ons by my professor and a horrible guest appearance by Big and Rich. But Saturday night is when it gets really good.

Saturday night we finally had the long awaited Tour de Franzia (a bicycle relay game that involves a race to finish a box of Franzia). After finishing a box of Franzia in a record time of 15 minutes, the girls team ( Jenny, Rachel, and me) won. Needless to say, I don't really remember the next hour or so of the night. However, when the wine started to wear off, CJ (the one who dumped me for being "too independent") takes me outside, cries and professes his love for me. He tells me he misses me and has come to realize that he loves me.

The night goes on, and CJ leaves. Shortly after, I leave and Jon, Jenny's boyfriend, chases me down in the parking lot. Then, he cries and professes his love for me. After an hour of explaning how he's been in love with me for four years, he kisses me. I freak out, especially because I have also liked him for the past four years. He then proceeds to tell me that he plans on going to the apartment where all of our friends are and telling them that he loves me and is leaving Jenny. I convince him not to, and eventually go home. I figure we'll talk about tomorrow. He goes and passes out in a ditch because he doesn't want to go back to the apartment.

Later that night, he breaks up with Jenny and tells her he's in love with me and a bunch of other stuff that's not good. I recieve numerous phone calls at 6 a.m. from Jenny bitching me out. The next morning he goes to pick up his stuff from Jenny's apartment, and they end up back together. He tells her that he was just trying to make me feel better (which is strange because I wasn't feeling bad). Anyhoo, Jon calls CJ and tells him that he kissed me and told me that he was in love with me. I still haven't heard from either one, but Jenny still wants to be friends.

I think I'm going to pitch this to MTV, they really should make a show about the shit in my life. The big theme of this episode should be: Please don't profess your love to me if you don't have the balls to do anything about it.

Merry Crazy Christmas!

Maybe One Too Many...

2005-12-10T12:07:00.000-08:00

I saw Fity Cent again last night. And I met his unit, the G-Unit that is. They were a little creepy and weird, and it was almost frightening how many scars they had. However, after making good use of the $10 bottomless cup at Fieldhouse, we made our way to the Blue Note where I ran into my writing professor and eventually ended up on stage with Big and Rich. They too are a little creepy and weird. But, to top of the creepiness of the night, my professor gave me his cell phone number, and he wants to out tonight. Apparenlty his wife and child are in Ohio, so he's "on his own" for the weekend." Kinda sucks, cause I thought he was a cool guy. Guess not.

Unleash the Fury

2005-11-30T15:01:00.000-08:00

I finally went to the doctor about my shin lumps. For the past eight years or so, I've had these lumps on the inside of my shin that hurt immensly and turn blue when I run. Since I'm off the parent's health insurance when I graduate in May, I figured now would probably be a good time to go. So, I went and it turns out I'm some kind of hulk-like freak. The doc told me that my muscles are too big for my body, so they bulge out in spots. That's right, I have huuuuuuuuuuge muscles. So don't mess with me.

Random Crap

2005-11-15T15:00:00.000-08:00

It's been a busy week, but here's just a few things:

I picked up the genius issue of Esquire, which has Bill Clinton on the cover. Underneath his name reads: "The most influential man in the world starts getting his hands dirty." The 60-year-old lady behind the counter at the bookstore sneered at my magazine and simply said, "I think his hands are dirty enough. That poor Monica." Anyways, the issue has an amazing article by Colby Buzzell on Bansky, the London graffiti artist. I would explain it, but you really should just go read it.

After reading the Bansky article and watching Love Actually a couple times (you gotta admit it's good), I decided that will be returning to London after I graduate. If I don't do it now, when will I? Plus, it's socially acceptable to live with rats in a dingy apartment in the red district part of town right after college. So, even if I don't the Wall Street Journal internship, I think I'm just going to get a visa, go over there, and hopefully someone will give me a job.

I decided to try to freelance my triathlon story. My writing teacher thinks its a good idea, honestly I don't know why, I actually spend a lot of time talking about my ass. But, he found it funny.

Saturday was the last Mizzou football game of the year, and the last one forever for me. The Tailgating Professionals had their biggest and craziest tailgate in history. Unfortunatly, team vagina lost in the flippy cup tournament. I blame it on the old chick. Despite being highly intoxicated, we managed to sneak in more beer for the actual game. And sadly enough, we ended the last football singing the alma matta with tears streaming down on faces. I blame the alcohol on that one, but it kinda hit that this is it. This year is the last everything. Anyways, I attached some pictures.

On another note, another friend's got an engagement ring on her finger and I got dumped for being "too independent."

Where's the Unit?

2005-09-20T16:59:00.000-07:00

It seems to be common knowledge for everyone outside of the southern states (in which category I include Missouri) that the Show-Me State is filled with trailer-residing, nascar watching hicks who most commonly smell like manure or deer blood. So, it only seems natural that Columbia would have it's fair share of hicks. Just go to Wal-mart any day of the week to see the bearded lady, toothless Joe, or any other of Columbia's notorious hick figures. However, what most people don't know is how many ghetto, and I mean gheeeeeeeeeeto people reside in the trendy town of Columbia. If you don't have sunglasses, you might as well stay at home on sunny days or you'll be blinded by all the bling-bling on campus. But, to prove my case of the ghettoness of Missouri I give you an encounter with which I had with a bling-bling bitch...

This little interaction takes place in Tonic on a Thursday night. Kimmy, Susan and I are on the dance floor and some girl completely starts leaning on me. Thinking this was a bit strange and funny, Kimmy, Susan and I laugh a little at the situation. Then I give her a little nudge. Next thing I know this huge black guy decked out in Fubu full on pushes me with two hands nearly sending me across the floor.

Me: What the fuck is your problem?
BSBM(Big Scary Black Man): What are you talking about?
Me: You just fucking pushed me you asshole
BSBM(smirking): I musta fell...opps
Me: No, you did it on purpose, which makes you an asshole
BSBM: Listen here Barbie, you don't wanna fuck with me
Me: Ha. I don't think you want to fuck with me. All you are is a ghetto thug
BSBM (raises his hand as if to hit me): Whatdusay?
Me: I said you're a ghetto thug. Are you going to hit me. Do it. I don't think you will, because you're obviously a pussy if you go around trying to start fights with girls. Why don't you go piss off another asshole like yourself instead of picking on little blonde girls.
(BSBM walks away)

I'll be the first one to admit that I shouldn't have called him a ghetto thug (although he was), but when I drink I tend to have a little problem controlling all my inner thoughts. A couple weekends ago I saw a guy who looked exactly like 50 Cent so I started yelling, "Oh my god! Fity, Fity, where's the unit?" Yes, I know, it was stupid. That comment was followed by, "Fity, Fity, dude I love your music, will you sign my napkin?" Needless to say, he came over and signed a napkin for me. The minute he left, Niki simply said, "I can't believe we didn't get shot."

So, this whole story thing kind of went nowhere, but the conclusion of it all is that Columbia is indeed ghetto and my drunken confrontations with said ghetto people will eventually land me with a gunshot wound or a hard slap in the face. And next time I see Fity at a club, I will not inquire where the unit is.