I've Become One of "Those"

You know the type. Not the round-the-way girls with the big booties and the stink; the I'll-just-have-a-salad girls with the clicky heels and the bedtimes. I've become one of those people.

Jessica Gets A REAL Job, Is Registered for Personality Transplant

Have you been wondering for weeks upon weeks where I've been, losing sleep, muttering in corners while you repeatedly bump into both sides of the wall? Have you stared angrily at your computer screen for days on end, pressing "refresh" on your browser until your keyboard actually emits an "OUCH" sound and your unwashed body starts to absorb your clothing in an effort to survive while your brain focuses solely on this terrible, cheap, pandering blog? I know babies, I know. Come to my bosom, let me explain.

First thing's first: remember a few months ago, where I got all pedestal-y about moving to San Francisco as this thing I NEEDED to do? Well guess the fuck what. I didn't move. Nope. As a matter of fact, I haven't even changed positions; I'm still on my bed with my laptop burning a hole in my skin while the house settles and sighs around me because I'm it's only stationary object. I didn't stay because I stopped believing anything I said, I stayed because I recognized that I don't get to control the circumstances of my life, only the way I react to them. And I also got a job. Like a real lady job. With a badge and a parking space and an ergonomic chair. After spending months planning finding this new life in San Francisco, I finally got a chance to build a new foundation; only I started construction in Los Angeles instead.

I don't regret staying, at least not yet, but I regret going back on my word to someone I care about very deeply. But! Things are mostly good. A new plan with a new vision, a new job and new grown-up shoes! But then it hit me this evening as I declined an invitation for debauchery: I'm boring.

I drink boring coffee while I read boring emails. I sort through my mail and make bank transfers to pay loans. I work out to podcasts, you guys. PODCASTS. Sometimes I have to turn off NPR because it's too stimulating and I just need to relax, for chrissakes. And here's the real bullshit: everything fun is blocked at work. Everything. Fun. Sometimes I see people sitting with their laptops at the Starbucks in my building and envy the sheer joy on their faces from watching a cat fall off a doorjamb and I think that used to be me. Cats amused me, too! I mean, sure, I get things done at work and actually learn things but kitties! And endless chatting about inane things! And drinking with friends on weeknights because work isn't a two hour commute away and you can just put off real work tomorrow while nursing a hangover! To quote a dear friend, those days are gone. Now I sit across from a dude who makes taupe wallpaper sound X-TREME with only a thin cubicle wall dividing us. I wander to the bathroom and back 40 times a day to ward off falling asleep. I write fake emails. Sometimes I open up old work and pretend to type things in it to keep others from giving me new things to do. Sometimes I Google a live clock and watch the seconds of my life tick away one by one by one by one.
But, in a weird way, I'm really happy! I'm moving forward, slowly but surely, inch by inch. There are things on the horizon so exciting and inspiring that I listen to Dolly Parton for hours on end just to satisfy my workin' 9 to 5 excitement about the future! Another plan to move in February with the Elaine to my Jerry (and Kramer crashes on our couch and eats from a bowl next to the cat's bowl)! Drinking at kitchy themed-bars for unreasonably long hours and low prices (Bigfoot Lodge this weekend, any takers?), wearing ridiculously high heels and remaining generally off-putting! Arguing over politics late into the night with cheap red wine and our fictitious kitten cowering in the corner to hide from her owners who just want to put silly hats on her head! Those days are just around the corner, as long as I stop the transition into one of "Those" (I swear to god, I actually picked up a book that had an Oprah's Book Club sticker on it) and reverse it into one of "THOSE?" people who blog about people that aren't their dads, (not even close!) then I'm going to be fine. I'll be better than fine. I'll be an even bigger nutcase but this time I'll have a desk!

And I will blog for you, baby birds; I will regurgitate my office-spaced-out life bit by bit for your nourishment. You will profit from my dull, not-quite misery. You will hear about Wallpaper Guy on a regular basis.
But now I need to go read my Jonathan Franzen novel (I know) and get to bed at a reasonable hour.

BLERG.

The Evolution of Woman and Yuck-Toe

Look at those faces. Look at those sweet smiles and those happy cheeks, scrubbed cleaner than a nun's hands, looking simply jovial as they hug one another and embrace Fenway Park, the heart of the Boston Red Sox. Remember those faces as I tell you the story of how they destroyed an entire city in four days.

Chapter One: Subterfuge



Oh what sneaks we were, planning for months to come out to Boston to surprise our dear friend Kelly. Conversations about visiting one day in the distant future slipped off the edge of our cunning tongues with the confidence of a seasoned spy. Oh Kelly, we'd sigh, how much I miss you. I only wish I could visit you soon, but it's just not possible! How easily the game was played, when disaster lurked around every corner in the intoxicated mouths of Steve/SJ's friends, freakish weather, and chance disturbances in our plan. As the plan moved along more and more smoothly, we felt sure the surprise would be spoiled and our fun ruined. However, as Kelly entered Parish Cafe it became clear to us through her look of terror and confusion that she had had no idea of our plans, and even clearer when she bared down and screamed as though birthing a child in the Middle Ages that she was indeed thrilled by the surprise. We talked and laughed and cried and held each other, the six of us (Emily, Jada, Kelyn, Caitlin, Me and Kelly) for as long as it took to believe that we were not only there, but we were there together.




Within 7 hours, two of us would be screaming at a Domino's employee while waiting for [REDACTED] to be released from what he referred to as "THIS PRISON!" (when it was really only an average jail cell) while the remainder of our group tried in vain to direct a lost cab driver around streets we'd never seen before. Friends were made (we'll never forget you, Bark) as well as enemies (at this point we were introduced to Yuck-Toe) as the night gave way to morning and those sunny, ecstatic faces crashed into pillows and cushions with the force of falling giants.

Chapter Two: I Am A Disgusting Human

When the first man crawled from the slime of centuries past and cells evolved, his body retching on the earth and his lungs taking their first breath, he declared, "I AM MAN." This was kind of like that, except way more off-putting. We clambered in our dresses, underwear, and each others' day clothes to recap the missing portions of our night. There was not a shower hot enough to wash away the events of the previous evening. Still getting used to our newly-evolved limbs and cognizant brains, we slowly dressed and emerged from our cave in bright yellow uniforms ready to conquer a formidable day.



Breakfast and 10 minutes of a BC football game later, we were tailgating and playing ridiculous (read: too difficult for me to win) games while an unnamed mother kept serving us finger foods and bite-sized Snickers. We walked along the reservoir and through the surrounding neighbors, repeatedly asking, "Steve! Wassat?!" in our childish wonder, momentarily forgetting the pain of Yuck-Toe and Bark, marveling at this new place which was shining its sun on our backs and guiding us with its breeze. We marched on to Fenway Park, gently (read: incessantly) teasing the Yankee-loving Jada about the many ways she could enjoy a Fenway Frank, occasionally looking out to the bright field to check that the game was still progressing as we enjoyed surrounding company much more than the roar of the crowds.



About two bars and something called a Scorpion Bowl later, we drifted off into the night and lost each other to various open doors and passing cabs. Our expeditions were rehashed over coffee and sandwiches in Harvard Square; we weren't allowed on campus because, unfortunately, we forgot to bring our tuxedos. The night drifted into Mojitos and flip-cup (because those two things match)and ended listening to the tall-tales of a man named Tex who smoldered in the corner of the bar with the mystery of someone with a name like Tex. Many voices were lost to the bar that night, as extemporaneous photo-shoots ("Be a tiger! Be a velociraptor! Jessica, get out of the picture!") and high-school era songs from Weezer inspired shouts of joy and suffocating laughter. Caitlin, on the other hand, lost hers to the streets of Boston as she shouted lessons in anatomy for the benefit of all passersby.

Chapter Three: To All The Boys We've Loved Before



We passed the morning with Sister Mary Clarence of "Sister Act" (which could easily be converted to a thrilling drama if the score were changed from campy ragtime music to something less ridiculous) and packed slowly to drag out our last moments together. I was certain the shedding of tears would wait until we arrived at the airport, but was jarred to see Kelly stop mid-stride on the staircase as though she were fighting back the urge to say something to all of us. Caitlin and I looked up to her, asking, "What's wrong Kelly?" as she began to giggle. Her smile widened and her breathing deepened as she doubled over in laughter, ignoring our inquiries. Instead of answering, she held up a single finger as though to say "Give me a minute." As if given a cue from God, Jada declared in anger, "WHO THE FUCK FARTED?!"

As I sit here, still laughing, I realize that at that moment I knew we had just capped one of the greatest conquests in American history; Los Angeles had come to Boston and our presence will forever be felt.

So to all the Steves, Sweet Lous, Jareds, Matts, Marks, Mikes, Cams, Rosses, and all other mono-syllabic men whose visions of women as those smiling, kind, timid creatures were destroyed: we salute you. You now know that the giggling, curly-headed girl you know as Kelly did not come from the same slime as any other human. She came from the hurricane of Los Angeles that carried us five Marians (with special guest Yuck-Toe) to your town, the same hurricane which whirls and laughs and dances and shouts and doesn't mind tossing around a building or two. You are brave survivors of Hurricane LA, and as you begin to rebuild your city piece by piece, wear your battle scars with the pride of men who have seen it all. And you should probably build a bomb shelter in your basements in case you should one day see it again.

Make Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair

I'm 8 years old, and I'm car-sick. We finally find a parking space on a hill so steep my tiny little brain conjures up a vision of the car unable to stop itself from rolling down at a tremendous speed and crashing in a trolley carrying only nuns and children. We check into the Richileu, a hotel that was "Newly Renovated" 12 years before, and I am sleeping on the floor. It is the first moment I decide that I will avoid sleeping in the same room as my parents at all costs for the rest of my life. This is the weekend that my sister graduates from law school, and it is the same weekend that I begin the love affair that will last for more than a decade.

That San Francisco Sound

I've written more than once about my complicated love for Los Angeles, but out of respect for my geographical wife, I've never written about my mistress: San Francisco. She is the bitter cold to the tempestuous heat that is LA, the seismographic terrain to the endless flat rock of my home. It took me 22 years to accept that I love this place that bickers with me incessantly, but it took me only a few hours to know that one day I'd seek refuge in the arms of another, forsaking angels for Giants. Before Halloween I will pack up my sparse belongings once again and shove them into the crevices of my beaten, wheezing Ford Taurus to move to that hilly metropolis which may or may not accept me as a citizen this time, instead of just a passing tourist.

Graduating from college didn't make me feel liberated or nostalgic; it simply put a magnifying glass to the small but growing tear in the seam of my life. Joblessness gave way to a part-time flirtation in sales and small victories countered repeated failures, but my single life was invaded by an ever-present specter reflecting the person I could be somewhere else. Los Angeles gave me roots, and nourished me into an adult; my roots firmly planted, it's time to fall off the bush and roll onto different pastures. I've reached my greatest heights this summer, and as the autumn leaves begin to fall, a new season is approaching, during which I plan to take advantage of new soil. The point is, I'm getting out of here not because I want to, but because I need to.

I need to be the person I've been preparing to be since I was 8 years old. I need to know that what I want and who I've become is a real, fleshy person, complete with more flaws than I can count. I need to fail, I need to succeed, and I need to grow.
Saying goodbye to the place that made me this frazzled, confused mess will be the greatest heartbreak I will ever know; I can only hope that I'll fall in love again with new streets which I'll discover on my own.

I don't know if I'm brave or stupid, but at this point I can't really tell the difference. Eventually I'll probably figure it out, but until then I'm ready to get the shit kicked out of me by Life. And, as always, you're invited to share in my misadventures.

Next Week: The Top 5 Things To Do In The Valley!
**Spoiler alert, the same thing is listed 5 times.**

"Funemployment" My Ass.

I have 3 more weeks to say, "I have a full-time job." Never mind that my days are currently filled with watching full movies on YouTube (Some Kind of Wonderful, Little Women, and Now and Then)I have a job. That pays me money. And makes me feel like I have a purpose. I have 3 more weeks.

People love to ask graduates what our future plans are with alarming frequency and impressive feigned interest. They don't care what I do, and I find myself getting winded just explaining what I've been doing the last few years before I even get to what my tentative plans are. Nobody cares, it's just what you ask. And you know what the worst and most confusing answer is? "Nothing."

I'm doing nothing. I got no food, I got no job, my pets' HEADS ARE FALLING OFF. I am moving back into my parents' house in 3 weeks. While that may be normal now, while many other people maybe doing the same thing, it's embarrassing for all of us. I'm going back to the Valley. I'm getting a passport, and reclaiming my nationality of "Valley Trash." Which, to be fair, is much better than LA trash, so I have that going for me.

I have no moral to this story, only that I'm embarrassed and depressed at the thought of being embarrassed and depressed. I will once again have to answer my father's incessant bird-calls while he sifts through bills in his underwear. This is my immediate future.

Let's get through this together, one blog at a time.

A Window Into My Future

"You're not an easy person to get to know," Autumn once said to me over coffee. "I've learned that with you, I should just stay still and hope for the best." This is absurd, I thought, I'm an open book! With a Table of Contents! And an annotated bibliography! Even a foreword by the author! But she was right, and I realized that the people who admit they know us the least tend to know us the best.

A Life of Empty Journals

I like to write. You'd think that a person who likes to write likes the utensils with which she may be able to write. And usually, you'd be right (And you? You're always right!). This is precisely why I have 4 blank journals, all of which I have received at special moments in my life; moving to college, turning 18, moving to Germany, graduating from college. Some beautiful, some leather, some printed, all blank. I have visions of sitting at a desk with Earl Grey tea, but then that whole Carrie Bradshaw thing really ruins it for me and I blog instead. I also restrain myself from using the phrase "I couldn't help but wonder."

And so tonight, Autumn mentioned wanting a journal and I offered one of mine. Knowing me better than I know myself, she said "Well, pick the one you hate the least, and I'll borrow that one. If you actually want to lend me one at all." The moleskin was a gift from my brother with sweet musings about my first boyfriend, the Anthropologie one is too special and delicate, the printed one already has a few haphazard paragraphs scribbled in it. She knows I love them, whether or not she knows that I don't usually write in them.

And then it happened; a vision so clear of a happy life living together, me and her, caulking our tub and fighting over which fixtures to use in the kitchen. I thought about the kids we wouldn't have, the spouses we wouldn't need or want. I thought about the ability of one person to truly know a person simply through their ability to acknowledge that there is too much to know. The adventure of learning about each other is Humanity with a capital H, Love with a capital L. And deeply adoring a person whom you know to be imperfect is to finally give in and accept that you, too, will always be imperfect. She has seen me without makeup, seen me sick, cranky, vulnerable. She knows I get lost everywhere I go and that I am not to be trusted with a map. I have seen her at her best and her worst, and I'm sticking around.

I don't need to write that in a journal.

But as we sat there tonight, sipping coffee and toasting "To Being Yuppies One Day," I thought for the first time that my journals should no longer be neglected, and that my future, a blank page, deserves at least a title. And maybe it ends with two old friends screaming to each other across a coffee table, but so what; that's Happiness with a capital H.

But I am blogging it, so I suppose the resolution starts tomorrow.

I've Had A Perfectly Wonderful Time; This, However, Wasn't It.

"Hold on to college as long as you can!"
"It's going to fly by, stay in school forever."
"These are the best years of your life, cling to them!"

These are all things I've heard for the last 4 years, and the speakers have gotten progressively more aggressive as I near graduation in exactly one week. What do I say to these beacons of hope and wisdom?

Oh don't worry, I'm killing myself as soon as the graduation party ends.

What do they want me to say? Should I take their advice and take on a 5th, 6th, 7th year and graduate an embittered 25 year old with $300,000 in debt and 5 degrees in increasingly useless fields (I hear Underwater Basket-weaving has a burgeoning market)? While the above response is a joke (in poor taste and completely satisfying), it's not far off. Is college the peak of my life? Is there nothing to look forward to? I guess I can kill all my friends, too, as a final act of kindness to them.

The greatest lesson I learned in college is to recognize when it is time to move on.

I have fallen in love with people and places. I've lived alone and I've lived among friends, I've explored every facet of myself, both drunk and sober. I know things. I know who I am and I know that I will change as life kicks the shit out of me and glues me back together again. I know what it feels like to go to work still fighting the night before. I know what it is to be heartbroken and I know what it is to be completely paralyzed; first by absolute joy and then by the fear of losing it. I've lived abroad, lived with people I've loved and people I've hated, I've been scarred and loved and laughed at. I've known regret. I karaoke'd in my pajamas, I danced on the 3rd Street Promenade, and I dove into the ocean half naked. I've said "hello" and "goodbye" in equal measure (with the occasional "Come here often?" thrown in) and I have watched the days on my calendar slip by with bittersweet sadness.

I have spent weekends which, though they fade like photographs over time, will forever be tacked on my wall to remind me that I'm still living; memories will not stop once I turn that tassel over to the left side of my graduation cap. I have shared so much of myself that I am spread, however thin and however faint, over the walls and grass and desks of this campus and hopefully reside somewhere in the minds of a few of those passing souls I may or may not remember.

Weekends in Vegas, nights at Thompkins and POW's, days at the beach, afternoons in the Einstein Kaffe, and the familiar drifting breeze from the neighboring ocean are mine, and they'll forever stay that way. The things I have lost I will find again, including heartache and joy, friendship and inspiration.

The tangible feeling of moments shedding away from my time here has defined my last few days, but it will not define my future; I know it is time to move on. The people and circumstances which have made my college life memorable and valuable are not static, they change with me and we will all move on together. I look forward the day we will meet again, beaten and aged but not broken, smiling at the ways life has failed to defeat us.

My life will forever be an adventure, and my greatest challenge will be knowing which paths to choose and when. I will live bravely and I will get hurt; but I will not die after graduation. I will love and I will lose and I will laugh in endless succession. I say this, of course, with a friendly reminder to Fate that killing me on May 9, while ironic, would just be a major dick move.

Next Saturday I will mourn the life I am moving away from with the nostalgia of a child who moves from her first home. Though I am leaving behind the walls in which I've lived my life for so long, there is so much more ahead of me which I cannot fathom. I never want to say my best days are behind me.

On May 8, I will carry these 4 years with me but I will not let them weigh me down. Life is starting over again, and I can't wait.

Alles liebe,
Jess

I Did It For Love

At the risk of leading you to navigate away from this post, dear reader, I'm going to tell you the end of this story: he jumps off a boat. Now that you know the ending, perhaps you'd like to hear how this story begins, or at least what idiot jumped off which boat and why.**

When Jessica Goes Aboard, Anything Goes.

After my first day in my new internship at Skybox, I raced home from Anaheim (congratulating myself on making excellent time) to get dressed for my third and final Student Worker formal. I knew that I would be cutting it close, nearly sober when getting on the bus to head to the boat(see? The pieces are coming together!) but I squeezed myself into a dress, tangled my hair in a knot, and slapped on some serious eyeshadow in record time and hoped for the best. It wasn't until I saw her stumble on the sidewalk that I knew I was in for a treat.


The Cryer
I won't tell you her name for legal purposes, but it rhymes with Shmegan. Shmegan is a chronic cryer, generally for no particular reason other than she's tired, drunk, and someone is looking at her. Our first encounter was when she ran out of the Student Worker dance screaming, crying, and waving her arms to hit any obstructions out of her way as she sprinted across campus because a girl in the bathroom told her that her parents probably don't love her. From that point on, I decided a party without her was an opportunity for hilarity missed. As a girlfriend of the Idiot, she is guaranteed at every Student Worker event; this particular night, I fed her a few beers and waited, chin resting in my hands, eyes bright with anticipation. She stumbled on the sidewalk while shouting "YOU CAN BE MY DATE _______, I GUESS I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND." This was said several times, hoping to find any ears which would pay her the attention she so strongly demanded.

The Idiot

He is a fellow Student Worker, and a fan of raves. I like the kid; the fact that he's dumber than a box of rocks doesn't mean I don't enjoy groaning at him with alarming frequency. He's a harmless idiot, muscled and tanned and privileged in all the right proportions. He is in love with The Cryer. And she's in love with him. And so our story begins.

At Least Let "Party in the USA" Conclude!

The boat was unexceptional and wonderful in its intimacy and confusing "Tiki" theme. The enormous accomplishment of 5 girls crammed in a bathroom no bigger than a single stall, not only peeing together, but comforting drunk tears, drinking warm beers out of dented cans, and wallowing in collective low self esteem paled in comparison to what was to come. The dance floor, packed with youths grinding against each other, ebbed and flowed with the tide, and the lounge upstairs envied its liveliness, as its only company was The Cryer. There she sat, curled up with her knees to her chin as she stared wistfully out the window, sobbing and checking over her shoulder to make sure someone was watching her. With little interest shown, her sobs grew more desperate, more violent, and more contrived. Noticeably absent was The Idiot.

I was putting my hands up, they were playing my song, and the butterflies were flying away when the music stopped and the lights went out; the boat started to circle sharply and, upon looking out the window, several life rafts could be seen bobbing in the water, empty and useless. The flickering lights from the Sheriff boat told us something was serious, and Miley's comforting voice had been choked off, leading us to panic all the more. There, in the water, was the Idiot, being pulled forcefully from it, clutching two bright glowsticks which he had held on to with an Olympian determination. The Cryer, gleeful at the opportunity to be The Concerned Girlfriend, cried louder while occasionally moaning The Idiot's name.

Once safely on the boat, the formal was over in just under an hour and we were heading back to shore; Party in the USA remained paused in its second chorus. The Idiot was cuffed and released, avoiding jail time with a $1000 fine, and as he stood, pathetically dripping from the clothes which clung to his childlike body, The Cryer ran to him. She sobbed, her large eyes clouded with tears and unfurling plastic eyelashes, as she struggled to decide whether she was angry or relieved. At this scene, I fell from my seat to the floor with laughter; I have the bruises to prove it.

The story will live in infamy: our shortest formal in history, a narrow escape from jail, two buffoons tailor-made for one another, sobbing and dripping in each others' arms as they shared this harrowing near-death experience. Later, when asked why he jumped off the boat, The Idiot sincerely responded, "I did it for love." Yes, he would even do that.

Someday, they will likely die in an accidental suicide pact. Until then, I will continue to enjoy their love for my own selfish entertainment.

** I originally wrote this post a few months ago, right after the actual event. I took it down out of consideration for the two morons in question, neither of which has read it, seeing as how we go to the same school and all. But I'm moving far far away in about 48 hours and it seems a real shame to deprive the world of this beautiful story of true love and stupidity.

Clocking Out

It was 4:13pm on a cloudy, useless day when the Girl Scouts appeared. They shuffled their untied shoes along the sidewalk, kicking the concrete with a dull absentmindedness and occasionally syncing their steps like an undisciplined platoon. The soft footsteps and sporadic shrieks distracted the secretary from her climactic game of minesweeper and recalled the silence of the office against the increasing sound of their shoes, averaging a child's size 5. She minimized her game to show a spreadsheet which contained nothing in particular; she had created it hours before to organize her monthly bills but quickly lost interest and saved it to resemble work should anyone look over her shoulder.
At the first thump on the glass door, the secretary shifted in her seat and took a great interest in the spreadsheet. The troops gathered around one another, quietly casing the building, as if they could sense which doors would reveal sensitive fathers with an extra $4, or soft-middled women easily convinced to splurge on a box of Tag-A-Longs. The secretary continued to concentrate on the sum formulas needed to calculate how much she would need to spend on dry cleaning this month, if she decided to dry clean any of her three pairs of slacks.

It was 4:19pm when the sticky little finger, soft and persistent, leaned on the buzzer to be let in the building; the secretary could no longer ignore the war-painted hellions as their noses breathed snowy circles of fog on the pristine glass. One of them wore a yellow sash with a sprinkling of badges which shamed the rest; her name-tag boldly declared that she was Kaylee, ranking officer. Sgt. Kaylee leaned on the buzzer again, a direct affront to the secretary whose hesitation so offended her. Devoid of any other ammunition, the secretary put up one finger begging just a moment and please excuse her she didn't see you standing there and its her first day this darned buzzer is just so complicated and aren't you sweet in your uniforms. Kaylee raised her eyebrow and leaned on the buzzer once more, holding it several beats too long in an effort to annoy the secretary out of her foxhole. A small girl with frayed pigtails stuck her finger in her nose, unashamed.

It was 4:26 when Kaylee seemed to accept defeat with a sour look and cocked hip; she signaled the platoon to move out without breaking eye contact with the defiant secretary. The afternoon would be passed in silence, and she was most pleased; that is, until a hand reached over her shoulder and pressed the "unlock" function which signaled a soft click in the door.
"Well, what do we have here?" asked Stanley from Accounting. "Are we selling cookies?"
He leaned over Kaylee, bending from the hips with surprising dexterity while simultaneously reaching for his wallet. "How about a box of Thin Mints?"
Kaylee flashed her missing teeth and her freckles seemed to darken under the harsh florescent lights of the office. The little feet trampled down the halls as doors opened to receive them, a new squeal of delight or exclamation of adoration echoing out of each one.

It was 5:16 when the secretary ushered the last of them out the door, a box of Samoas tucked in her purse.

Me too, Randy Newman. Me too.

The iconic image of "I (heart) NY" slides by without question, and sets such a high standard that any other "I (heart)______" imagery is a fraud, a little brother trying on a too-big jersey and attempting to sneak into the big kids' game. Nobody "hearts" a city the way that they heart NY, apparently; in particular, nobody hearts LA.

I Chase LA

Why does "I (Heart) LA" seem contrived, rigid, or pained? When a person walks down the streets of LA wearing any kind of loving paraphernalia, the Angeleno knows that person is a tourist, someone who only loves LA because he doesn't know it or understand it. Los Angeles is exactly what outsiders say it is; shallow, unforgiving, without permanence, mismatched. Its flaws are its age-lines and scars, and its once-lovely face becomes gnarled with time; a face only a mother could love. Truly, I think the most difficult part about loving this city is that it refuses to love you back.

Its warmth only lingers for a few moments in the evening, the only time it doesn't burn; its shadows remain cool and indifferent to you, occasionally offering a menacing darkness in an otherwise cheerful afternoon. Its women look like palm trees, tall and thin with a graceful rigidity; they are beautiful but so numerous as to be forgotten or ignored. The city hurries, it loiters, it swells with its own self-importance. Traffic moves like sticky sap, filling the creases and wrinkles of the streets; storefronts appear and fade with the rapidity of evolving crazes and fads (goodbye cupcakes, hello Pinkberry). Each paper billboard wilts with the outdated fashion it boasts; it stares with envy and sadness at the rotating electronic billboard which never grows tired, enthralled with its own newness, eager to please.

LA is a jealous lover; it deliberately forgets you when you travel, its muggy summers seal your doors shut with the glue of humidity and neediness as it begs you to stay outside a few more moments, promises to breathe cool air on you, and blazes on spitefully if you refuse.

LA is a scorned woman who doesn't forget the tragedy of loss or violence. She brightens and subdues hundreds of times per day as she converses at length with the sun. She smells of white linen and Coppertone, her music is that of diesel engines and the lone street performer. She sleeps outside in Summer, wraps up inside herself in Winter, casually sprinkles a few dead leaves to remind you when its Fall.

Los Angeles is simultaneously bustling and lonely, absorbed in its own independence but desperate for the adoration of others. It has no time to love you, no time to establish landmarks, to preserve your childhood. Photographs are fantasies of a life no one remembers but you; time changes in the way you remember it, a secret between you and the dust of the city.

We don't love LA for its history or for its reflexive pride. We don't fall in love with endless construction or hide-and-seek parking. We love the city because it allows us to but refuses to indulge us so that we keep coming back for more. We remember the streets we've lived on, the friends who wander around for years never quite finding home again. LA doesn't let us leave before we've had one more drink, one more sunny afternoon; before long, we've stayed another decade when we meant to get home before dark.

Someday I'll leave to find out why so many people wear the names of their cities with pride on their chests; I'll explore the alleyways and gray-skied coasts of the Eastern Seaboard, or the dry, thirsty heat of the deserts. But I'll come home to the city that gave me my first kiss and my first baseball game, pleading forgiveness for leaving her; I'll come back to find a whole new city, aged with the memories of millions of past lovers.
I'll keep chasing LA.

Since When is the Internet Boring?

You know you've hit a wall at work when you can't even amuse yourself with cat videos any longer. To be fair, cat videos are really a last resort for me, but today is another 12 hour day where I have no one but the internet to amuse me. Facebook stalking gets old after 15 minutes, CNN has nothing new to offer, and your favorite blogs fail to update every time you refresh the browser.

A book, you say? What do you think I am, a college girl? Psh, reading. Soon you'll be suggesting I start thinking about things, getting ideas, becoming involved in local politics and initiatives. Idiot.

So I've compiled a list of things to do at work when you're not really working.

1. Hop on to imdb.com. It's about as addicting as Wikipedia, but less about historical nonsense and more about movie trivia. For the record, Jason Sudeikis and Charlie Day are going to be in a movie together. BRB losing my shit.

2. Think about food. Fantasize about the lunch you want; this takes up a good 45 minutes of possibility, which leads to indecision, crippling hunger, frustration, bargaining, and ultimately--once you've realized you have about $4 and there is not a restaurant in the world that will make you a lobster-and-watercress salad for that--Arby's (it's how they stay in business). WARNING: Do not begin this thought process more than 45 minutes before lunch; you will hate yourself.

3. Stop thinking about food. Give the good people over at This Is Why You're Fat a visit. This is to be followed by feeling terrible about your inevitable Arby's decision.

4. Work. For about 15 minutes. Don't be a hero.

5. Meddle. Maybe stir up an unnecessary debate on a nerd blog about why James Cameron is a hack. Aintitcool is a good place to start.

6. Cat videos. Let's be real. This was your first stop, I really just rearranged the order.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some celebrities to cyberstalk.