"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.