Fuck You, Hemingway.

When Hemingway had writer's block, the story goes that he would sit down (presumably once he found a space amidst all the empty wine bottles and letters from Gertrude Stein) and just write the truest thing that came to his mind. Today I decided to break my writer's block and give ol' Hemmy a try. Here's what I came up with:

"Stories that end with, 'and it was SO funny' should never have been told in the first place."

I know why you did it. Everyone was talking and laughing and you were there, waiting to jump into this very subtle double-dutch game of wordplay. You sat there, sweating, panicking, tuning out of the conversation in order to come up with your very precious contribution. Something moving? No, the other people seem to be enjoying themselves and this doesn't feel like the time to share your grandmother's last words. A significant statistic? Hm. You don't actually know how many people per year lose limbs from deep-frying turkeys at Thanksgiving, and it would be the ultimate embarrassment if Steve knows and calls you out on it because fuck that guy.

They are all laughing and ordering another round. You shift your weight in the squeaky booth, uncomfortable with how long you've been silent; they must be noticing that you haven't said a word in the last 4 minutes. The beers arrive, but this is no time to be drinking and dulling your social senses. This is the time to look alive, be sharp, kill them with your wit. And then Steve clears his throat, ready to say something he's obviously been waiting to say but your silence is too uncomfortable to bear for the length of another person's story. You jump in.

"Hey, remember that time that we all went up to Big Bear?" You have their attention, a few smiles of recognition. Yes, they remember that weekend. But dear God, you went too fast too soon! What were you going to bring up? GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME. There's no time, you've gotta play it fast and loose or that dick Steve is going to talk about when he got into a snowball fight to the death and shit, that's a good story.

"I just...remember when I went to buy 30 pack but left it at the store and then we had to go back and you guys were all, 'Dude!' and it was SO funny?"

You get a chuckle. A pity chuckle at best. Somewhere in the distance you hear a faint "Oh, yeah..." and you give yourself a little breathy laugh because what a hilarious memory for you. But the momentum has hit a roadblock and you have to bury your face in a beer to pretend like you don't know you kicked it into drive and jammed it into the wall against which it is currently crushed. You sit, smiling, emitting a soft, "God, that was hilarious. "Dude." Haha."

And just like that, you've teed Steve up for the snowball story and you know what? Fuck that guy. It's not that good of a story.

But it really is.

HEMINGWAY, WHAT HATH YOU WROUGHT?

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