I’ve been trying to learn how to make a perfect pan-seared steak. This is the fifth method I have tried. This made the perfect pan-seared steak. Halfway through eating it, I slapped myself in the face.
Cooking steak like this will smoke up your whole house. Turn off your smoke alarms. Your whole house will smell like steak. You’re welcome, bitches.
“Do you want to sacrifice your personal life, your emotional stability, and your sense of self to play a role in the development of an advertisement? If you do, work here!”—Reading Glassdoor reviews of agencies gives me such confidence in a happy future.
Life Update (or "lufedate" - a word that will certainly catch on)
Last night I put on extremely constricting undergarments and ridiculously high heels and co-hosted our annual talent show. I told jokes on a stage in front of 150 people and professors and they laughed. It was chaotic and nerve-wracking and awesome. So that is something I did.
It is a little past midnight. Friday. I sit at my computer, prepping for an open mic, trying to figure out if I can wring another minute of material out of America’s favorite serialized sexual crime show: Law & Order SVU.
(my heart says yes, but my gut says 27 minutes on John Munch’s piercing…
My boyfriend is doing a stand-up special. Go follow him. He does funny things. It’s alright I guess.
I’ve spent the past week finishing and preparing a campaign I’ve been working on for a month. Today I pitched it to a real client. Let’s just say my three other classes have… fallen into my mental ditches and died there.
I have to come to one of those other classes tomorrow with a product or business or service to do a campaign for. My brain is dead and I want to eat pepperoni and bacon pizza and drink three beers and fall asleep. Please give me a product, service, or idea for a product or service, or a company, or a place, or whatever random shit, and if I pick yours, I’ll come back in three weeks and show you the crap I made for it. Thank you.
Here is a question mark to demonstrate my gratitude: ?
Today, in: I Am Death, I Walk Among You, Blaggg and Other Death-y Noises
I bailed on a major project the weekend before presenting it to the Board of Directors because I hated it and I was frustrated. My group got a better writer in my place, so I’m not worried about them. I am worried that I am an idiot and probably an asshole.
There was a time in high school when I was severely depressed and struggling hard in all of my classes, especially honors chemistry and pre-calc. So I let myself stop trying so hard. And I felt better. For a while. It may have even saved my life. But then I started failing. Those Cs and Ds on my report card from one single semester kept me from getting into any of my dream colleges. I’ve never stopped regretting it.
So there I am, sitting with my group in my professor’s apartment, failing to hold back awkward tears as he berates me for telling the truth (he is awful at scheduling and demands all-nighters from us after being impossible to meet with, and he pushed his own idea on us and the client so the whole thing felt fraudulent and wrong), and I’m on the verge of quitting after he tells me I have too much “negative energy” (sorry about my crippling mental illness, bro) and all I can think is that I’m doing that junior year again. I’m choosing the easy path because it might make things easier in the short term, without thinking about the long term.
But then I think, fuck it. I hate this. I don’t want to waste a week doing something I hate at the expense of four other projects I actually like. I got into and went to the hardest school in the world for what I want to do. I have had 16 hour days most days of the week for over a month. I have headaches and chest pains so bad that I need prescription painkillers. And so I am going to quit when things get too difficult. Because I am allowed to be a person.
So even if people hate me and think I’m lazy, I will know that isn’t entirely true. I have promised myself that I won’t let this job and this industry take over my life. I am allowed to be a person. I like to eat and sleep and make fart noises at my friends. If this world doesn’t want me to have both, I will force it to.
I went to my first Renaissance festival, got very drunk before 2 PM, shouted inappropriately during a jousting tournament, ate several types of meat on sticks, met new people and then fell asleep in front of them, met a really cool baby named Ted, played 3 incredibly competitive rounds of Uno, and drove home.
I pissed off a few groups by going out of town but I needed a day off so badly so: don’t care don’t care don’t care don’t care.
My room has been smelling bad (like is-that-mold-or-cat-pee bad) for a while now and I haven’t been able to find the source, so I bought a blacklight and combed over everything and found the answer.
A little back story: when I first moved in, I thought Jo was bullying my roommate’s cat, Freddy. I’ve recently realized it’s the other way around - Freddy harasses her until she lashes out, and she hides from him under my bed or in my closet for hours and hours.
I put Jo’s litterbox in the dining room a few months back in hopes of drawing her out of my room once in a while. I’ve been cleaning the litterbox every day, so I assumed she’d been using it.
Freddy’s been using it.
And Jo has been pooping and peeing in my closet. Every day. For months.
Now it’s an hour later, I just washed my hands four times, and I’m using them to pray like hell that the closet is the only place the smell was coming from. Please. Pleeeease. She’s such a tiny animal. There can only be so much. Right?!
If you’ll excuse me, I need to go drink two bottles of wine and sleep at my boyfriend’s apartment, because a room that smells like Boy is still somehow better than a room that smells like my nightmares.
Instead of having individual anxiety attacks every few weeks, my body has decided to just have one really long anxiety chest-squeeze. That’s right: as of last Tuesday, my chest gets to hurt all the time! Every second of every day! So much pain!