Urban Fantasy

Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Deep Thoughts

FeistyEJ (12:27:54 PM): what does one do with a 55-foot long inflatable worm at a birthday party???
FeistyEJ (12:28:01 PM): or anywhere in life, for that matter?

Monday, August 30, 2004

Um.. ha ha?

So annoying. Wrote big, beautiful multi-paragraph entry last night and then *click* it somehow vanished. Pooper.

Back at work after world's laziest weekend. Is it possible to OD on "nothing"? If so, then was nearly terminal case until Sat night, when Mom and Dad got inexplicable but much appreciated urge to organize an event including alcohol in public! Who'da thunk it? Turned out to be lovely classic night of Reef roof in A-M. Looked cute, got hilariously profound after the fifth Zelko gimlet, your basic night out. Good times.

Rec. huge shock from universe clearly enjoying fucking with me. Wandering around Eastern Market, as to fulfill my Urban Fantasy (even had loaf of French bread sticking out of bag in engaging manner). Sat in cafe drinking iced green tea and reading Vanity Fair (the Thackeray novel, not the magazine) (atho magazine would have been almost as Bobo frightening/fabulous). All in all, a day David Brooks would be proud of.Then who should I run into on street but That Guy. That kid who in middle school was way too intense and creepy for his own good, who had a huge crush on me for the better part of 3 years, who was the only other Hippie Hometown student admitted to The College when we graduated from high school, thus temporarily restoring my nightly conversations with Jesus as I fervently prayed for some impediment to block his matriculation. He's the kind of guy who has a forest's worth of back hair at 12.


Yes, THAT GUY. Yeah. He is now moving to France to live with Violette, his French girlfriend.

Despite this insanity, we wound up chatting, which turned out to be pleasant enough. Catching up with people from home is always awkward because I can't talk about my college experiences without sounding like a braggart. I can't help if I was ridiculously lucky in college. I won't apologize for having a Capitol Hill press pass at 21, or for working for Respected Boss. I worked my ass off for these things. It's this very strange combination of wanting to prove that I'm better than the people who wouldn't hang out with me in high school yet realizing how stupid and petty that is. I want to leave the impression of someone who is wildly successful and happy, and I always fuck it up and recite too much of my resume, ending up sounding like some soulless automaton housed in the body of a shallow bitch (who, unflatteringly, has put on a good ten pounds since high school).

Maybe someday we'll all have it figured out, to embody that seamless dream where the fun of being judgmental meets the warm fuzzies of being a good person and the glow of professional and personal success.

Blrur Existential Crisis

Am 22. Is ridiculous to spend Monday night slogging Sam Adams in bed whilst downloading mournful Jeff Buckley songs and mooning over He Who Must Not Be Named. So frustrating. Have got to meet someone before become even more tragic. Have not yet progressed to weeping at Celine Dion (from emotion unaffiliated with terror), but that no doubt begins with the second month of celibacy.

Has it really been less than 2 months since Hurricane A? Maybe just feels like shorter b/c cannot seem to shake him. Know rationally that this has absolutely nothing to do with him or what he has to offer me. Is merely my projecting what I want on physically available, emotionally warped, geographically inconvenieced fuckbuddy. This logic, however, is not hugely helpful.

Bloody hell. Is a Sex God with Conversational Skills too much to ask for? That he would just fall out of the sky into my lap? I can see That Guy in a market, and not a good-looking soul who will have the decency to hit on me?

God, if you read the blogs of tipsy yuppies, I would appreciate Your help in this matter.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Meeh

Recently had epiphany that desire to be freelance writer. This is likely result of several things:1) Want profession where acceptable to a. wear pajamas for significant portion of day, b. consume alcohol in said pajamas for significant portion of day, c. constantly explore new projects as a way to further own education and knowldge of obscure topics while introducing general public to fascinating ideas and concepts, d. repeat a and b.

2) Am professional masochist. Currently work for political consultant legendary for certain tendencies that shall go unnamed as Washingtonienne has me paranoid and have not yet triple-checked settings. Put it this way: most pleasant part of day thus far has been swatting at flies. Freelance writing-- constant poverty, the threat of rejection, tendency towards alcoholism-- would be breezy sunny and lovely after this. As in, would perhaps experience the sun once in a while.

3) Work alone (well, in a silent basement with said boss). Words bouncing in head all day. Must purge them so as not to become crazy lady who talks to self. Once realized this, also realized was wasting all great smartass comments on email and IM to friends and family. They are lovely, wonderful people who bring joy and sunshine into my life. However, if there is ever the chance that I whip this into an article, pitch or similar, would cheerfully ditch them all. Cannot allow self to waste best material on easily closed IM screens all day.

Plus I get bored at work. So, here: