Rock It

Yeah, the economy sucks balls, and I’ve been having horrible visions of myself working as a secretary in a dental office - which is completely lame, considering all the cool shit I want to do with my life.

If you went to school to get an accounting degree, then, yeah, you’re probably trying to be an accountant. But if you’re me, and you got a degree in Asian Studies (of all things) and your first job ever was as a writer, then nobody’s handing you a career itinerary. That’s all on you. And dammit, it’s fucking scary! The parents of every engineering and business student are studying you like a lab rat, and asking you dumb questions like, “What are you going to do with that degree?” You’re like a social experiment. They’re all waiting to be proven right, to be justified in harassing their child into a monstrosity of a major – because hey, their kid is going to make bank while you answer phones and chase a CEO around with a cup of coffee.

But hey, fuckers, I’ve got some surprising news for you. The economy is in the toilet. Even seasoned professionals are losing their jobs. And that ridiculously narrow-sighted degree of yours isn’t going to be worth jack shit when you’re competing against people with degrees and experience!

I’ve been very fortunate. Mostly because, somehow, when I want something, I tend to get it. I completely skipped the retail and food services industries as a teen because I was hell bent on being awesome, and not at all concerned with money. I got a job at a newspaper doing grunt work, until the boss assigned me an article. And BAM! He realized I had talent. I went from intern to editorial assistant. I was published every issue. And at my next journalism internship gig, I insisted on being given a chance immediately. At first, I was told that interns were supposed to do grunt work, and maybe I’d get a chance at an article by the end of my stint. I very politely informed my superior that I had two years worth of published articles at another newspaper, and that the internship wasn’t worth the gas if I couldn’t write. So she gave me a chance. And guess what. Every single article I wrote was published on the front page, including the first.

I’m not telling this story to be a narcissist. I’m just saying, why settle? If you want to be the baddest bitch on the block, you aren’t going to get the experience working at Target. Always aim high. And do the weird stuff – nobody’s resume says “secretary, secretary, secretary, secretary, Vice President of Public Relations.” That kind of career jump doesn’t exist. But if you can demonstrate accomplishments that are varied and unusual, employers will look twice.

Anyway, after spending the entire summer after my junior year in college in Southeast Asia, I had an idea of my new dream career.

I had visited the UNESCO office in Hanoi, Vietnam, and met some really kick ass women who had relocated from the US and Britain. I had also eaten dinner at an NGO run restaurant in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, which was generating funds to be put back into the surrounding community. Hell, I wanted to work at a Southeast Asian NGO! (For those that don’t know, NGO, or non-governmental organization, is the same thing as a non-profit.)

But how? The general consensus on the internet was that, while such a career path was desirable, it was extremely difficult to get into. Well, hell, now what? Do I try to get an internship at the UN?

On Monday, I was surfing www.idealist.org – a site dedicated to non-profit job listings around the world – and I discovered my dream job. Communications Coordinator for an NGO in Laos. Oh my god. PR, media, writing, editing, content design – I couldn’t believe it. I fell in love with Laos when I visited. I had wanted to visit Vientiane, but had been unable. Now I had a chance to work there! And dammit, you’d be fucking surprised how easy it is to write a kick ass cover letter when the job you’re applying for is the ultimate everything you’ve been seeking. This job stood out in a sea of lame ass jobs I had been sadly considering applying for. So, I wrote my cover letter, attached my newly redone resume, and emailed it.

So, guess what? I got the job! I knew the job was perfect for me when I looked at the description, and apparently the director could tell I was perfect for the job by looking at my description of myself. Hell yes. I getting to go where I wanted to go – and I’m only 22 years old!

Some things to note – my future position, Communications Coordinator, is an internship position. But it’s at a small NGO – which means I’ll get tons of hands-on experience. I’m volunteering 3 months of my time starting in July, which is when I finish my stint in Americorps. And if you’re thinking, whatever, it’s unpaid, screw that, think about this: what kind of employer wouldn’t look twice at the resume of some 22 year old blonde girl who handled communication and PR for a non-profit in a 3^rd world country? It takes fucking balls to do something like that. And, if I do continue to work towards a career in Asian NGOs, isn’t this the place to start?

Yeah, you fucking know I rock.

You Know You Suck If

If you are gunning your 1990s Corvette down Gaffey Street in San Pedro, California, at 9 in the morning, you are not fucking cool.

Especially if you are gunning it on your way to a red light, at which you are forced to come to screeching halt. And especially if you did all that just so you could try to make eye contact with me right before you stepped on the gas like a bad ass.

Ew, your car is outdated, and a dirty burgundy color. I know it’s a Corvette, jesus. But it’s an old Corvette. Old Corvettes do not become cool until they are classic Corvettes. Right now you are just the lame ass who couldn’t afford a new car.

I mean, if you’re cool, I must be cool too. Hey, I’ve got a Mercedes. Yeah bitch, a Sportline with racing seats! My model was more expensive than those regular 190 E’s, yeah, umm, back in 1992! Hey, I’m gonna fucking gun it up and down this port town – everyone’s going to be really impressed. Yeah.

Sorry man, you just can’t get to me – not even with that raised eyebrow and those douchey tats. I mean, ugh, you’ve got car air freshener that’s shaped like a pine tree. In your Corvette. Obviously you are not a classy Corvette owner. I’m guessing you logged on to AutoTrader last year looking for a deal. Well, I hope it was a deal, because it sure looks like one.

That car might work if you were in high school. But man, you’re like 45. Middle-aged dudes like you can get away with run-the-mill used cars, valuable classic cars, or brand new sport cars. Because those cars signify a normal dude, an avid hobbyist, or a wealthy businessman, respectively. A 1990s Corvette says: “I wish I were wealthy and a baller, but I’m not. So I’m going to take my meager savings and purchase the car I would have liked to have 10 years ago.” That’s not a good look, my friend. It does not make the ladies hot.

If you had a 10-year-old Lamborghini, I might have bothered to take a second look. But that’s because those mutherfuckers are still freaking expensive 10 years later. Dude, I could buy your fucking Corvette. What’d that set you back, 8 grand? I mean, I’m just going off of AutoTrader here.

Sell that beacon of shame, man. You didn’t hit it big, and you can never get your good looks back. It’s over. The glory days are gone. Go get yourself a Prius. Oh wait, that’s out of your price range.

My Rap Skills

Because I am a freaking whack job who lacks actual work to do at work, I decided I was going to be ultra productive today and compose a rap song at work about how much work sucks.

A few things to note:

1. 505 is my apartment number.

2. I intend to record this. (My roommate owns recording equipment and Protools)

3. I also intend to make this into a music video. And become a Youtube sensation.

4. Please excuse the letters in parentheses. It’s easier to write with a preexisting rhyme scheme.

5. This doesn’t have a title yet.

Ahem. And here it is:

[Intro]

Yeah bitches! If you be working 9 to 5 for half of minimum wage, the girls of 505 have a shout out for ya:

[Verse]

(A) I’ve been huffing glue, just wasting the day,

(A) But I can’t feel bad, ‘cause it’s such shitty pay

(BB) Why’d you give me this job? It’s making me sob!

(D) And I’m about to duck out, but there’s 4 more hours!

(A) I’ve been stalking on Facebook, and tweetin’ on Twitter,

(A) You gave me a sentence to type, and since I’m done I’ll just sit here.

(BB) What’s this, an email? Oh, Viagra on sale?!

(BB) No one’s called me in days, this job is amaze

(D) Plus my office has no windows, no ac, or heat

(A) Boss musta forgot I worked here, no assignment in weeks.

(A) No one likes my ideas; the meeting’s all empty seats

(A) I shoulda stayed home, coulda slept in my sheets.

[Chorus]

(A) Bitch, I coulda doooone this work at home, yeah, meeeee all alone

(A) Buuuut my life was totally pwned. [pause]

(B) 9 to 5 be killing me. Myyyyy computer screen’s all I see-

(B) Guess happiness is history.

[Verse]

(A) Yeah I work at a shelter, and I steal the food,

(A) I’m poorer than the clients and for cash I’ll get lewd

(BB) ‘Cause baby, strippers get more cheddar than I’ve made since November

(D) That’s why I’ve got 10 roommates, but some day I’ll be pimp!

(A) I’m thinking of the day I won’t shop at the supermercado

(A) Yeah bitch, it’ll all be good when I win that super lotto

(BB) My desk job’s a joke, for retirement I’m stoked

(BB) Why’d I pay for that degree, if it’s not paying me?

(D) Too bad I’m 22 and this lame job is whack!

(A) My savings are nonexistent, I ain’t got no stocks

(A) I’m about to hit a bank, yeah and pull out my glocks

(A) They call it a bad economy, but this economy sucks cocks.

[Chorus]

(A) Bitch, I coulda doooone this work at home, yeah, meeeee all alone

(A) Buuuut my life was totally pwned. [pause]

(B) 9 to 5 be killing me. Myyyyy computer screen’s all I see-

(B) Guess happiness is history.

[Chorus]

(A) Bitch, I coulda doooone this work at home, yeah, meeeee all alone

(A) Buuuut my life was totally pwned. [pause]

(B) 9 to 5 be killing me. Myyyyy computer screen’s all I see-

(B) Guess happiness is history.

[Breakdown]

(A) I’ve got $5 in my account

(A) But soon I’ll work it out

(A) Don’t you have a doubt

(A) It’ll be 5 million, that amount

(BB) They call me a desk jockey, they all try to cock block me

(D) But I’m gonna be the shit.

(A) Yeah, when I’m CEO

(A) I’mma have lotsa dough

(BB) But now the haters give me busy work, and that’s ‘cause they’s a jerk

(B) But someday I’ll have all the perks

(BB) And they’ll all be still here, yeah while I’m woman of the year

(B) Let me hear ya cheer!

[Chorus]

(A) Bitch, I coulda doooone this work at home, yeah, meeeee all alone

(A) Buuuut my life was totally pwned. [pause]

(B) 9 to 5 be killing me. Myyyyy computer screen’s all I see-

(B) Guess happiness is history.

[Outro]

That’s right, quit that shitty job. Go get you a suga daddy! OUT!

And, that, my friends, is the first rap song I’ve written since I co-wrote and produced “Frosty the Ho Man” back in high school.

The Stalkers at UPS

It’s kind of awesome that some minimum-wage earning, half-in-the-bag, unshaven stoner took the time out of his busy schedule at the United Parcel Service to commit a federal offense – just so he scare the crap out of some unsuspecting internet shopper.

Yes, that shopper would be me.

On Saturday, I finally received the planner I had ordered from Poketo. It came in a manila envelope, and had been shipped by some packing service through UPS. The flap was taped down with industrial packing tape, and I struggled to rip it open. At first, only a small corner opened – but that corner, much to my surprise, had “eet” written on it in someone’s sloppy cursive.

Now why would anyone write something on the inside of a manila envelope flap?

At first, I figured it was just a cute message from someone at Poketo, in the same vein as all those Etsy artists who write you “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” notes because they’re starving to death into their studio apartments trying to make ends meet by doing freelance photography and sewing plush monster dolls.

But no.

After taking a pair of scissors and cutting carefully around the flap, I discovered this:

“Brittany let’s meet”

Whoa. Whoa. Cue panic mode! (If you’re not aware, all young females from the suburbs have been raised with the idea that everyone is out to rape/kill them and if they aren’t extremely cautious, death by psychotic drug addict/serial rapist is inevitable. I can thank my mother for the waves of insuppressible fear that arise every time I happen to be alone on a sidewalk after dark.)

Here’s the thing. Obviously, my UPS stalker had gotten my name from the address label on the package, and therefore could very well have my address. He could show up at my door, knock, ask for Brittany, and then murder me. All because I had made the grievous mistake of ordering something online. Woe is me! My internet shopping addiction has led to my demise!

For fuck’s sake. What kind of serial killer sends notes to his victims via UPS before showing up at their door, with no idea what they look like? This seems like a shaky plan. This hypothetical serial killer would be in federal prison by now.

So, of course, I calmed down. And laughed. Silly UPS fucktards – they really must be bored. Fucking with my mail and shit. Yeah, dude was probably high and hitting on people via cryptic envelope messages seemed like a good idea.

But, ummm….if I turn up dead, would you let the police know about this?

Thanks.

I mean, not that that would happen. I’m just kidding.

Sort of.

Rave Reviews

My Brother: Your blog is totally bad ass.... It reaffirms that you will probably hate anyone I will ever love and that makes me happy cause when I stop loving them we can sit around and talk mad shit about them all day.... I think you should talk about what a bad ass your convicted felon brother is though but that's my only suggestion.

I’m Just Not That into You

Two nights ago, my roomies and I settled down to watch He’s Just Not That into You, a cinematic tribute to social retards and unstable women everywhere.

Basically, there were two or three awwwwws sprinkled over the plot – mostly to keep you from pitching your coffee table at the television when Ginnifer Goodwin opened her crazy hormonal pie hole. And the moral of the story was this: women are fucking crazy. But don’t fret female audience members - men can be crazy too!

Yeah, in the end, we get to feel better about ourselves because it turns out that what’s-his-face – played by The Mac Guy – is just as unstable and unpredictable as Ginnifer Goodwin. Sort of. I mean, unlike her, he can actually attract members of the opposite gender – and he doesn’t sexually assault people that don’t like him out of desperation and stupidity.

Lately, I’ve begun to really taken notice of the giant batch of crazy that all female characters in media seem to be made of.

An example: Dexter. Goddammit, I love this show. But has anyone noticed how insipid all the female characters are?! I mean, Dexter’s sister is like the hormonal psychopath of the apocalypse! She’s always dating crazies – you know, serial killers, old men that hunt serial killers, common criminals – and she falls crazy in love with them, cries a lot, gets mad at every freaking thing…essentially, she’s a man’s worst nightmare.

Anyway, the point is, American media portrays women as emotional nut bags.

So, here’s the question: are the majority of women raving lunatics? Or do women and men alike think that’s how it’s supposed to be – because they’ve seen it on TV?

Basically, I’m tired of this type of behavior being promoted. It’s not normal – and if it is, shouldn’t we discourage it?

I have an incredibly sweet boyfriend who is overly accommodating, and he is often startled by my lack of open-mindedness when it comes to keeping company. Sometimes I don’t participate in the activities he invites me to, simply because I know I can’t stand the other guests. Today, while reading Metrodad, I stumbled across a quote that sums up my perspective perfectly:

“But it’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that certain events have made me poignantly aware of how short life is and that I shouldn’t waste time with shallow idiots who make the Jonas brothers sound like Truman’s counsel of Wise Men.”

Ah ha! If only I been able to express this when The Boyfriend wanted to know why I didn’t want to chill with an old classmate that had transformed into a druggy Suicide Girl with co-dependency issues – and whose favorite topic of conversation was, of course, serial killers. Or that time I expressed dismay at hanging out with his ex, who rather enjoys taking sexual and/or emo photographs of herself and writing about how no one understands her in her Livejournal (who the fuck still has a Livejournal?!).

Dude, I just don’t care. These chicks practically have giant signs taped to their heads that say “PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’M CRAZY!” That’s how you’re going to get attention? By acting like you’re off your meds? By tattooing dead fetuses on your arms? (true story) I mean, hell, I’ve got daddy issues too – but I address mine by calling pops “Cancer Dad” and coming up with plots to off Wife Number Four.

So, in summation, please stop rewarding your crazy girl friends’ emotional outbursts with concern and understanding. No. No, I don’t understand why you’re fucking crying in a corner. Maybe if you stopped popping pills for three goddamn seconds, you would feel more balanced.

Guys, if I were you, I would just take a page out of John Wayne’s book. Specifically from a scene in one of my favorite movies, McLintock!:

Sometimes, you just gotta smack a bitch.*

*Obviously I was raised incorrectly. Only very, very strange little girls grow up idolizing John Wayne because he grew some balls and smacked Maureen O’Hara on the ass with a shovel. Bitch deserved it – she was playin’ games.

Even Jesus Wants to Read My Tweets

Go forth – and be awesome.

Being cool is practically a full time job. Sometimes the pressure just makes you want to cancel all your plans, buy a Snickers bar at the nearest convenience store, and roll up in your comforter until you’re a giant fucking puffy burrito of lame.

Don’t do it, my friend. You don’t need sleep, hydration, or space! This is the year you’re going to show everyone just how damn awesome you are!

Okay, fine, let’s back up. How the hell is “awesome” accomplished? Well, think of someone you know who you are always down to hang out with – no, not your lover – and figure out why that is. Chances are, they aren’t meek, flaky, or idiotic. Am I right? Are they funny, eccentric, energetic and up to the task? Yes? They’ll hang out until 4 in the morning on a week night? They’ve traveled? They enjoy cocktails and cupcakes, or have a weird pet? They think pirates are awesome, so they actually sail on a regular basis (instead of just drooling over Johnny Depp)? They love music, so they actually perform in clubs, cafes, etc? They enjoy writing – so they got their shit published?

Being cool is about having the chops to back up what comes out of your mouth. Anyone can claim anything (“oh emm geee, I just lurve Irish bands! Name one? Uhmm, you know, that one that…errr….”) but it takes a cool fucking person to talk from experience, rather than some vague desire.

So here you go. Britt’s guide to cool:

Don’t be throwing pity parties. Man, nothing brings me down more than having to listen to you whine about how your mom isn’t nice to you and your thousand-year-old great grandma might pass away soon while I’m trying to get fucked up on vodka. Save that for your therapist. There are a billion people out there who are much, much worse off than some suburban 20-something – especially one whose parents provide an allowance and pay rent on an apartment so their precious child can live “on their own” while attending community college.

Don’t wimp out. Oh, so, you’ve been talking about how awesome it would be to go to France for, like, the past year and a half – but now that we’re booking the tickets you think it’s a little dangerous and expensive and far from home? Screw you. We’re gonna have a helluva time tappin’ French ass and drinking champagne in the Eiffel Tower while you sit on your mom’s couch watching reruns of The Office. Oh, you can’t come out to the going away party either? Your mom doesn’t want you out that late? Dude, I never want to see your ugly momma’s boy face ever again.

Have an original thought once in awhile. Okay, you’ve been saying “That’s great!” and “You’re so funny!” for an hour and a half, and not once have you produced anything that makes me want to say the same back to you. If life were Facebook, you’d be the idiot going around posting one word comments on everyone’s statuses – but never updating your own. Yes, I know I’m witty, charming, and hilarious – but what the fuck are you?! Are there any hopes, dreams, or fun anecdotes in that cavernous noggin of yours? No? Oh, you think I’m being funny and sarcastic? No. No, I’m not. You really do suck.

Realize that you’re not surgically attached to your boy/girlfriend. Hey, man. It’s cool that you brought your ball ‘n chain to the bowling tournament – I mean, she doesn’t know anyone here, or even like bowling, but – oh, okay, you’re not going to bowl now? You’re going to sit in the corner and hold her hand? Wait dude, you’re our fucking star player! Can’t she just watch you play? Oh, I see, she gets upset when you ignore her, and you want to get laid tonight. She couldn’t hang out with her friends? Oh, okay, she abandoned them all when you two got together? You guys are the center of each other’s universes? You’re a douche bag.

Don’t try to relate to shit you know nothing about – it makes you seem stupid. Oh, yeah, sky diving was awesome – I just needed something to blow off some steam after that astrophysics final. Oh, you know what I mean? Oh – yeah, umm – I’m glad you got yourself a Wienerschnitzel chili dog. Good, good, I’m happy that it made you feel better about flunking your ceramics class. Wait, what the fuck? How do flunk a ceramics class? You just made bongs the whole semester? Where do you go to college – oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you are a 25 year-old high school student. Yeah, no, that’s astrology you’re talking about. No, astronomy is different. But, yeah, sure dude, we’re totally going through the same thing.

Take care of yourself. So – let me get this straight. You’ve got serious confidence issues that stem from men not hitting on you at the bar. Sweetie, maybe that’s because your teeth are a permanent yellow color and you look like you haven’t brushed your hair in a month. Oh yeah, and yesterday’s eyeliner is smudged underneath your eyelids. Oh, that’s today’s makeup? You wanted it to look like that? Your hair is just like that “naturally”? Yeah, that’s why the rest of us use fucking straighteners, curling irons, and blow dryers. Oh, okay, you don’t like that stuff. Well, then, stop fucking crying. It’s just not going to happen – you ever hear of having to work for what you want? Yeah, well, it applies to catching a man too.

Handle your shit. What do you mean, can I spot you on the rent? You lost your cell phone? You borrowed my favorite dress without asking and ripped it, but you don’t know the name of a seamstress? Fucking google that shit. Balance your check book, don’t leave your phone at bars! Life is not this hard. Rent is the same every month. I am not responsible for you blowing all your cash on blow. Wait, you blew it on Blu-ray disks? We don’t even have a Blu-ray player! You’re retarded. It sucks that I have to be so much smarter and more prepared just to make up for your complete lack of common sense.

Well, there you have it. A few pointers for being awesome.

Resolutions

Oh, 2010. You’re going to be epic. I can feel it in my loins.

And just because I have nothing better to do at my pointless office job, I’m going to write some resolutions that will fail to be completed over the next 12 months.

Do some new shit. It’s hard to be motivated when your life revolves around waking up at 8 am to stare at computer screen until the sun goes down. It sucks balls that I need sleep to do it, too. But I’ve already done some new things! I mean, last night, I made avocado margaritas! They were buttery, tasted like lime, and made me all happy and green inside – even better, they didn’t make me gag! So next on the list are absinthe cupcakes. And no, not all the new shit I do in 2010 will be alcohol related and a shade of green.

Stop being a lazy asshole. Would I like to go outside? How would I feel about some exercise? Surely you jest – all I really want to do is play Wii and eat Doritos, duh! But hey, since 2010 started I’ve participated in a 5 hour death-march down the hills of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, plus some follow up horse trail walks that left my calves burning for days! And it was a good kind of burn (that left me walking like a 90 year old)! Can I keep it up? Probably not. Do I want buns of steel and some super model legs? Well sure – if they don’t require real, consistent effort!

Get the fuck out of here. Man, did I hate living in Eagle Rock. My college was in the armpit of downtown Los Angeles – nothing but taco trucks, liquor stores, and billboards in Tagalog. But at least when I lived there I would actually leave. Now that I’m working full time in the South Bay, I feel as if I haven’t seen the rest of Los Angeles in eons. I mean, Jesus, the days are starting to blend together – all I see is the inside of an office/windowless box, my car, and my wanna-be luxury apartment south of Gaffey Street. Oh, and the inside of the house of my hermit boyfriend, who hasn’t left Rolling Hills since he stopped having money and started paying heaps of rent. Well, that’s about to change. I’m spending this weekend inebriated and face down in the snow in Tahoe (and hopefully blissfully unaware of the 20 people around me that are also crammed into a too-small cabin); next weekend in Vegas (sharing a room for two with a half a dozen drunkards); and the weekend after that in San Diego (pretending to be a sushi chef and sleeping on the floor after I overdose on sake and seaweed). Then, hopefully, I will end my stint in Americorps in some freaking awesome third world nation where I will pick up yet another potentially dangerous infection (here’s looking at you, Tuberculosis)!

Speaking of which, take my Tuberculosis meds. Yeah, I guess it was funny for a half a week, and then I got tired of taking meds followed by B vitamin supplements to prevent the loss of sensation in my extremities. Dude, what? I’ve got TB? Didn’t they eradicate that? Oh, that was polio? Ah, yeah. Well, that’s what I get for standing next to phlegm-spitting old men on street corners in Vietnam – a dormant Tuberculosis infection! Yay me! I really thought this infection was just an addition to the fun list of facts about myself until my Grey-Goose-on-the-rocks-chugging, 80 year old, bad ass great aunt of the Apocalypse handed me my ass at Christmas. So, apparently, she picked up TB in Chile – but didn’t know it until she stopped being able to breathe properly during her chemo treatments a few years back. Yeah, so, apparently those inactive infections become active if your immune system gets damaged? Huh? Oh, didn’t I just have a kidney infection followed by bronchitis? Okay, okay, great auntie! Put down your empty glass of pure vodka! I will start my nine months of potentially liver-damaging medication…tomorrow. (Hey, wait, how did you keep up your Grey Goose intake on this medication? Aren’t you supposed to not take it with alcohol?)

Assess my closet. Wait, these jeans don’t fit? I’m out of underwear again? I never bought an iron, and now I have to go to work commando, wearing crumpled britches and a polo that could pass as a belly shirt? Oh shit. No wonder I’m a Volunteer in Service to America instead of an Executive Assistant at a law firm. I look like a hobo. What a cruel cycle – you need nice clothes to make money, and money to buy nice clothes! Well, I’ll make it easy: everything purchased prior to freshman year of high school in going in the trash. Everything with a giant stain is going in the trash. Everything with missing buttons is going in the trash. And everything with rips, holes, or otherwise is going in the trash. Oh fuck. Now I have to go to work naked.

Don’t end up living in a storage unit with my furniture and pet turtles in July. Oh, cruel Americorps. This program lasts for a year, provides poverty line income, and does not guarantee me a real job (unless I want one of those shoo-in federal jobs, like “Visitor Use Assistant” or Park Ranger for the National Park Service, or Secretary for the IRS). If I don’t get my shit together by the summer, I will be left with an apartment worth of furniture with no apartment to put it in, and no income to rent said required apartment. I mean, I could always sell all my furniture on Craigslist, and then go intern for The Institute for the Investigation of Communist Crimes digging up bodies in rural Romania. But that seems a little drastic. Although my resulting resume would make me look really bad ass (or really bipolar) to potential future employers.

Acknowledge the source of my asshole-ishness, and fix it. So, you think I’ve got no soul? I’m not capable of love, I hate everything, and I think everyone is an idiot? Well, hey, you’d be right. But it’s your damn fault. If you weren’t such an idiot – and you didn’t go around breaking promises like they were loaves of bread and you were Madeleine, living in a boarding school in Paris – I would be running around hugging bunnies and squealing joyfully like the rest of the blonde population. But hey, fucker, you raised me. You insult babies. You think it’s fun to get pissed at people asking for donations to help kids with cancer! You drive an expensive car with a custom license plate that lets everyone know you have a Ph.D. You’re on wife number four, and you blame it on all those ex wives – ever think, maybe it’s you?! I’m calling you on your shit dad. There’s no way your IQ is 167. You are FAIL. And I’m just like you. I should work on that shit. I mean, I just watched The Notebook with my boyfriend – he cried. I insulted all the characters and said they deserve Alzheimer’s. I suck. Soon I will be alone – just me and my nasty, sarcastic movie commentary.

Be a bad ass. Yeah, what? Yes I know I’m only like five feet tall, blonde, and I went to a liberal arts college. But I’ve eaten roasted dog! I’ve repelled down 200-foot waterfalls! I taught prostitutes in Cambodia how to do the Macarena; I’ve been punched in a bar fight; I’ve jumped off a cliff; I’ve gotten drunk on fermented rice in a Hmong village in the mountains of Laos, and white-water river rafted, and contracted Tuberculosis! I’ve ridden elephants, danced on stripper poles (and received tips – despite wearing all my clothes), gone zip lining (and got stuck 300 hundred feet above the rain forest floor because I was too light to make it to the other side). I’ve kayaked drunk and been hit by a barge, I’ve been swept off a cliff and nearly killed – but cured my wounds with a shot of tequila. I have pet turtles; I have seen North Korea and illegally taken a photo of it (from across a big military compound, ha); I’ve been briefly mistaken for a drug mule at customs in LAX, I swore to defend the Constitution of the United States against its enemies in exchange for less-than minimum wage, and I have an Asian Studies degree. It’s been awesome. And it’s only gonna get awesome-er!

Bring on the new decade!