tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44442394242804404052024-03-16T03:09:07.313-04:00The Accidental BitchThe Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.comBlogger140125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-9273619474603387422010-01-11T21:56:00.002-05:002010-01-11T22:14:18.855-05:00Why do New Yorkers RUN when they get off the train?I always heard that New York City ran at a different pace than most. <br /><br />I fought it in high school and in college, when I didn't live there. <br /><br />I always heard: "People from the Northeast work faster than most." I hated that thought. "I am just as productive as those f-ing New Yorkers," I thought. And I probably was.*<br /><br />But I've lived in New York for a few years now. And it's not that New Yorkers are faster, or better - it's that they have to try harder. They have to take the dirty-ass subway in the morning - with people who look like they'd rather be looking at a corpse than you - and show up with a smile on their faces. They have to avert their eyes (to avoid looking like a creepy onlooker); they have to seem occupied. They have to gamble that they'll be on time, based on the whims of the unruly train service.<br /><br />So, I appreciate New Yorkers. And there may be many reasons for their strange behaviors, but the fact remains: New Yorkers at rush hour <span style="font-style: italic;">sprint</span> when they get off the train.<br /><br /><br />*I was probably more productive than when I was living in New York.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-3143689730688467032008-10-29T00:15:00.000-04:002008-10-29T00:18:41.620-04:00When I grow up, I want to do something. Anything.<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The doors of the subway car open and I give up the pole's stability, shouldering my heavy messenger bag.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I cut around someone to ensure I am still following the man I sized up during the subway ride. He walks quickly, and I wonder if he is actually supposed to be somewhere or if he always thinks he is in a rush. I wear the latter hat quite a bit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">He takes the staircase I never take, and I slow for a moment before continuing on my usual path, past someone who is either confused or homeless, up the stairs, trying to avoid bumping into the people next to me.</span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" >"</span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" >Follow through<br />Make your dreams come true<br />Don't give up the fight<br />You will be alright"<br /><br />The drums patter into me me as Muse's Matt Bellamy tells me,<br /><br />"</span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" >Don't be afraid<br />What your mind conceives<br />You should make a stand<br />Stand up for what you believe"<br /><br />I glance at the stuffy boutiques as I walk up Lexington and wonder if standing up would change any minds here.<br /><br />I would write on the cardboard boxes in my apartment, instead of recycling them, and tape them to the store fronts. "McCain is a douche" - too much? Okay... "Vote Obama" wouldn't work either. I peer into a fully lit shop with its grate down.<br /><br />How about... "Turn off your lights when you close!"<br /><br />I'd do it every night, like a secret op, at 2am. I'd wear a black burglar beanie. People would rubberneck on their way to work in the morning. "What does that say?" When they saw more every day, they would start to look forward to it. They'd drift off to sleep thinking, "I wonder what the Cardboard Message will be tomorrow." It would end up in the New York Times. Or the Daily News. Whatever. It'd end up somewhere.<br /><br />Or the neighborhood security people would tear it down, or stop me, or arrest me.<br /><br />And whose mind would I change? Anyone's?<br /><br /><br />My close friend, summer roommate, soulmate, etc. invited me to a Teach-In on the economic crisis at my Alma Mater. Top sentence-starters included:<br />"If the Fed..."<br />"Policymakers can either..."<br />"News outlets need to..."<br /><br />These ivory tower professors were clearly frustrated about the economic situation, the way the bailout is being handled, and the lack of news coverage for workers' rights. They wanted things to change. I wanted things to change.<br /><br />But when I asked them "What can we do right now?" in the Q & A, they crushed my spirits.<br /><br />Not knowing I graduated last year, the first answered: "When you graduate, you can pursue something in journalism."<br />Another professor answered: "Vote"<br /><br />Thanks for keeping the power in the hands of the elite, but what do I do if I don't want to be a journalist? And what if both political parties have crappy proposals? </span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" >Why can't everyone have an impact? </span><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" ><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">My sophomore year economics professor answered: "Organize."</span><br /></span>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-53881920024675140852008-09-18T04:56:00.000-04:002008-09-18T05:15:19.205-04:00Another addiction for meI used to have a reason to stay up until dawn: a deadline, a late wrap on the film set, weekend partying. I would see the tinge of blue diluting the dark blanket of sky and I would stare. Fascinated. The sun was about to come up and I couldn't stop it. <br /><br />On the train home from a shoot, I took constant pictures of the sky. They all looked the same, but I couldn't help it.<br /><br />Working against the clock to finish papers in college, that tinge gave me a buzz. It was a challenge, a tangible signal that I was running out of time. It was terrifying and enticing.<br /><br />Now, I have no reason. I have to go to work (as I call it; "internship" is embarrassing) at the same time, I get home around the same time, and I don't technically have any take-home things to do. No; of my own volition, I stay up until 3:30 or later, even when I was exhausted hours before. Even though I could barely stay awake at work. I stay up, I watch The West Wing or Mad Men or a movie. <br /><br />Apparently I take joy simply in knowing that I should be, but am not, sleeping.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-19188123915550680502008-09-17T01:59:00.000-04:002008-09-17T02:12:01.772-04:00Moving to New YorkSince quitting the awful job, I have:<br /><br />- Moved into an apartment in Manhattan<br />- Gone to Ikea three times<br />- Started an internship at a film production company where names like Natalie Portman and Sam Rockwell are thrown around like darts<br />- Lost my debit card<br />- Lost my cell phone<br />- Had several arguments with my new roommate<br /><br />My roommate is a friend from school whose ideas about life, it turns out, are very different from mine. Small differences in lifestyle make it surprisingly difficult to do things together. I like going out, she likes staying in; she likes cutesy-silly decor, I like cutesy-classic; she often misinterprets me, I often dislike what she says.<br /><br />I guess I'm in for a big learning experience. And I thought losing my phone would be hard.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-58119758862177047842008-08-14T23:49:00.000-04:002008-08-15T00:27:19.381-04:00The impending relief of quittingLast week, I quit a job for the first time.<br /><br />It was a wrenching experience - I'm not really the quitting type. I'm the type who sticks with something, even if I hate it, just for the line on the resume and to prove that I'm dependable.<br /><br />Or perhaps it's because I don't want to be in that conversation. The I'm Quitting conversation. I don't want to bring it up, to offer excuses or explanations, wonder if my boss will hold it against me. I'm a bit of a coward.<br /><br />This job even had an end date, in only five weeks. In five weeks, I could be free and have a clear conscience. I could avoid the conversation, the bitter ex-boss, and find another job. I could uphold my personal pride, and make the project better.<br /><br />But I couldn't wait five weeks. I wimped out and quit over email, but I did it. And, amazingly, I don't even get to relax because I have to find an apartment in the next 3 days or so. When I'm done with that I think I will be able to get over whatever has scattered my brain.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-67830209207869751122008-07-17T11:19:00.001-04:002008-07-17T12:32:06.520-04:00No more avoidingI definitely avoid telling people what's new with the boyfriend. Not just on the blog; people I know. It took me over two weeks to tell my mom that we got back together, and even then I only told her because he's my date at my cousin's wedding. I wondered, why do I hesitate? Am I uncertain about the relationship? Embarrassed?<br /><br />Maybe.<br /><br />Or maybe it's because I get such awful responses. People roll their eyes, laugh, or groan. "Again?" They say. It's like they forget I have feelings.<br /><br />When I told my mother, during a late-night call, the phone went silent. I braced myself.<br /><br />Finally: "I don't know what to say."<br /><br />"Okay..."<br /><br />My mother went on and on: I always go back and forth with the relationship, this is difficult for her, blah blah blah.<br /><br />Instead of reacting to her statements, I calmly replied: "You seem upset, Mom. Why are you so upset?"<br /><br />"I'm just trying to protect you."<br /><br />I had to point out that for all her judgments, she never asked me how I felt about it. She didn't even ask me why we got back together or how. She simply disapproved.<br /><br />I am not a fool. I don't know if this relationship will last, and it still has problems. But it was my decision to get back together. I should not have to apologize to anybody about that.<br /><br />The last time we broke up (in May), it was for several reasons. He refused to move to New York, and I couldn't commit to living in Los Angeles. Beyond that, there were several communication problems that I was unwilling to fix. Most importantly, we didn't talk about anything substantial. I kept envisioning us, finally living in the same place, having nothing to talk about. We'd go see a movie and have a five minute conversation afterward: "What'd you think?" "I liked it, you?" "It was ok." The clink of silverware would fill the air.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/SH9oQ7cLg1I/AAAAAAAAADw/zq3jJpqnz0k/s1600-h/Get-Me-A-Beer-Poster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/SH9oQ7cLg1I/AAAAAAAAADw/zq3jJpqnz0k/s320/Get-Me-A-Beer-Poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224008732816147282" border="0" /></a><br />I was satisfied with my choice to split up. A few weeks later, I broke the silence to check in. He told me he wanted to get back together, to which I angrily listed every problem I had with our relationship. Every problem, down to his roommate's "Get me a beer" poster hanging on his living room wall.<br /><br />He didn't fix everything that's wrong. Again, I'm not a fool. I even bet that poster is still up. But he told me a few things about himself. He told me about coming out of a depression caused by losing his best friends, being lonely, and feeling purposeless. He told me he was willing to move to New York. He responded to my concerns and acknowledged that it would take a lot of work to make things better.<br /><br />I'm used to hearing promises like this. I was skeptical and angry at myself for getting back together. Sure, he sounded more mature. But that might not make any difference. It would turn out exactly how it had before: we would be close for a little while, but nothing would change. We would have short, vapid conversations and he would continue to close himself off.<br /><br />To my surprise, we've had several non-vapid conversations. The first was about politics. I've always hated talking to him about politics, because he's pretty conservative. (In our first private conversation, way back in high school, he asked me how I thought the world came into existence. After my bewildered response (Big Bang), he told me he believed Genesis.) I was shocked, then, to hear him say "us" in reference to the Democrats.<br /><br />Yesterday, I left a meeting with a director in Park Slope. Walking to the subway, I checked my Blackberry and found an email from him. He told me that he was proud of all the work I've been doing and felt lucky to get time to talk to me in spite of my schedule. He then caught me off guard, saying:<br /><br />"I feel like I haven't always known what I was doing with our relationship, like how to act. I knew how to make you feel good about yourself, I knew how to compliment you, and how to be sweet, etc. But that kind of stuff (though I have always been sincere) seems kind of shallow, and until recently I don't feel like I was fully intuitive toward your feelings."<br /><br />He ended the email with a bit of a confession. During the wedding, we are going to be separated most of the time because I'm a bridesmaid. In the past we've had arguments about him not coming to family events, and he finally admitted that he felt awkward around my family. In the email, he told me he was intimidated by how well I got along with his family, and said that in the past he would have found an excuse to avoid coming to the wedding. But he wasn't doing that anymore.<br /><br />I was touched by his honesty. Talking about his feelings? Deciding to do the uncomfortable thing and sit on his own with my family for hours?<br /><br />Obviously I haven't told him about my mom's reaction. I'm hoping she behaves herself.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-16843084845843114352008-07-10T01:34:00.000-04:002008-07-10T02:47:02.689-04:00Love letter **Dear Blog,<br /><br />I miss you. I just realized I miss you. The past few weeks I've been thinking about you a lot. This may sound weird considering how long it's been since I called or wrote, but...<br /><br />I love you.<br /><br />Yeah, the big L word.*<br /><br />I figured out that I love you when I realized how guilty I feel for neglecting you. And I wouldn't feel guilty if I didn't love you and feel a bond with you, right?<br /><br />I started feeling guilty right away, and don't think I ever stopped. It wasn't always conscious, this guilt; more of a constant, growing weight.<br /><br />I felt guilty because I was mad at myself for allowing myself to stop doing something I really love to do, which is to write you.<br /><br />Writing in you is one of the only things I do that I truly enjoy. The only thing I'm not asking myself to do for someone else, like a teacher or a boss. It's pretty much you and TV. And I haven't had much time for either of those things lately.<br /><br />Of course, TV is still in my professional field so it's not entirely for me. **<br /><br />But I thought of you, and I even wrote down ideas for you. My train rides into the city are full of scribbling notes for you. The seeds of ideas I want to write in here. So, I am dedicated. And now realize the mistake I made by denying myself of you. <br /><br />*No, not "Lesbian." I feel like the show <span style="font-style: italic;">The L Word</span> is taking over the meaning of that phrase now. At least for me. Sort of like how "You've got mail" now means AOL... Corporate America is definitely taking over<br /><br />**My professional field is really weird. Watching any form of moving picture these days (film, television, short films, documentary, and now Internet footage) is like homework. It's important to always be taking notes (mental or written) while watching because this industry is so competitive.<br /><br />It's competitive because there are a very limited number of jobs, at least ones that pay, and tons of applicants. How do I know this? Because even entry-level jobs don't respond to me. I've had eight internships, in nearly every format of film and television (reality, narrative, large studios, small independent/art), in nearly every discipline (marketing, development, production). I've written, I've directed, I've edited.<br /><br />There is little opportunity to write or direct whatever you want, if you want to make a living as a writer or director of film/video. By the time you've come up with the money for the paints and brushes needed to create the film, you'll either be a full-time waitress or an entertainment person being told what to write/direct. Or, more likely, an entertainment person who doesn't write/direct. Really, that person doesn't have very much time to do much of anything for fun. Anyway, feature films tend to take longer to make than your yearly two week vacation.<br /><br />So, the only way I can be a writer or director is to work for Horriblewood or make friends with some rich, rich people.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-8124733672859250872008-03-30T23:36:00.001-04:002008-03-31T00:08:09.715-04:00Finding a cookie-cutter (home)The past two weeks, I've been visiting my dad on spring break. My dad lives in Chapel Hill, which is a University town. There are a lot of smart people around, a lot of college kids, and a lot of expensive real estate. <br /><br />Until recently, that last one didn't matter too much. But my dad's consulting business, vulnerable to the whims of the market, has been suffering for the past two years. Worse, most of his business contacts are retiring or getting laid off.<br /><br />I feel bad for him. He's been applying to jobs for a year now and nothing has worked out. No one wants to hire someone who's going to retire in a couple years. And in this economy, nobody wants to hire anybody period. He's used up all his savings, declared bankruptcy , and is preparing to hear the big ol' F-word: "foreclosure."<br /><br />Luckily, he's got my stepmom, and she's got a job. It doesn't pay a hell of a lot, but she can buy groceries and gas, and her credit is good.<br /><br />This Saturday, they thought it would be "fun" to go looking at housing developments they're thinking of moving to. The more affordable ones. Unfortunately, that means moving out of Chapel Hill and into what my stepmom refers to as "hick." We spent four hours driving around the smallest little towns and then turning into housing developments that looked exactly the same. All the homes looked the same, with a tiny backyard and no sidewalks, the earth so freshly scraped that you could still see its reddish coloring under what would soon be well-manicured imported lawns.<br /><br />I asked them why they wanted me to come, why they want my input. They keep telling me that my opinion is important. But from what I've seen it won't make a difference. They'll just be moving from a more expensive cookie-cutter house to a cheaper cookie-cutter house built next to another cookie-cutter development surrounding a town that will soon get a Wal-Mart. I want to tell them this, but they're so passionate debating the minutiae (Dad doesn't like the criss-cross windows, my stepmom on the lookout for landscaping details); I can see they really care.<br /><br />And who am I to talk, anyway? After all, I'm about to start looking for somewhere cheap to live in New York City.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-90791621356479461202008-03-24T23:37:00.000-04:002008-03-25T00:36:25.585-04:00Don't work for "the man" (even if you like his shows)With graduation approaching, I've been spending more time than ever searching for a job. I'm pretty savvy at finding jobsites and listings, and have found several summer jobs and internships this way. Looking for a "real" job, though, seems more scary.<br /><br />I want to find the perfect job. I feel this incredible pressure for this job to be the "right" one, as though it will define me for the rest of my life. It's all right if it's entry level, but it has to be on some kind of path that fits with where I "want to end up" (which, by the way, I don't even know).<br /><br />I struggle with this all the time. Do I want to be a writer? A director? Producer? Am I drawn to those positions because they represent creative control? It must be the ambitious capitalist in me that wants to reach to the top.<br /><br />"Do you want to do high art or low art?" My dad asked me tonight, after I had vaguely explained the difference (think art films vs. broadcast TV).<br /><br />"Well..." I faltered. "I want to have an impact on peoples' lives." A lot of 'high art', I imagine, doesn't get noticed or isn't understandable except to art or film history academics. Impact, in the sense of affecting people outside the elite art world, could be minimal. The trade-off: programs that aren't controversial enough to turn viewers off. Definitely not my style. But still...<br /><br />"If more people are watching, I can impact more people in the world, right?" (So, sneak something controversial in without people noticing)<br /><br />"Well, is that really what you want to be spending your time on?"<br /><br />I pursed my lips. The idea of dedicating my life to something like <span style="font-style: italic;">Project Runway</span> leaves me feeling empty. Sure, people enjoy the show; I was definitely hooked at one point. But I don't know if I want to spend hours upon hours making something about fashion and cat fights. <br /><br />So, if I follow my dad's advice and work on things because I actually like them and not because I want to brainwash the world*... I feel better about myself, but a little less certain about a steady income.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />*Kidding... maybe</span>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-42066735585483564302008-03-23T22:49:00.001-04:002008-03-23T23:39:18.827-04:00Procrastinating on one thing by getting down to work on anotherTonight I was reading a website about time management as a way of procrastinating.<br /><br />I think that might be the equivalent of what hundreds of addiction memoirs refer to as rock bottom. (I'm being tongue-in-cheek here, but I actually am addicted to procrastinating, so I guess that wasn't too funny.)<br /><br />Anyway, all pieces of advice on procrastination, no matter how sweet, had an underlying message: "Just freaking do it already!"<br /><br />"FINE" I said. "But first I will write a blog entry." After all, I've definitely been procrastinating on that.<br /><br />I recently had several tests done because I've apparently stumped the medical community (two communities, actually, since I'm visiting my dad at the moment). What three doctors had assumed were thyroid problems have been dismissed by a top* endocrinologist as essentially "not my problem, lady." Though my thyroid is 2-3 times normal size and has increased bloodflow, and my blood is full of thyroid antibodies, the doc (who, after waiting for bloodwork to be faxed in, probably wanted me off his back so he could see other patients) told me there's nothing wrong. Seems a little counter-intuitive to me, since earlier in the appointment he had told me that thyroid antibodies are an indication of Graves disease. But hey, he's the one with the degree. When I asked him about my symptoms, specificially the not being able to breathe, he sort of shrugged and said to see a lung specialist.<br /><br />After admitting I might be going crazy and picking up a book called "Learn to Relax", I began to feel like I was making everything up. On one of the first pages, almost all of my symptoms were listed as results of stress: muscle pain, fatigue, decreased appetite, loss of concentration and memory... Ticking off my symptoms, I smiled as I remembered this last one:<br /><br />A week before, a friend complained that a mutual acquaintance had called her at 8am (an ungodly hour for a college student). <br /><br />"She called me too!" I said. "I was already awake for my doctor's appointment, but still... she didn't know that." <br /><br />"What did she want?" My friend asked.<br /><br />I couldn't remember what the call had been about. I must have looked like a nutcase sitting there, trying to recall a conversation that had happened only three hours before. <br /><br />So maybe my symptoms are from stress. That's certainly better than Graves disease, although I've never heard of stress-induced thyroid antibodies. Now I feel a little sheepish about the fact that my "heart palpitations" are bringing me in for an echocardiogram on Wednesday. What if I imagined all of it? I wonder if "Faker" is inscribed on my heart. Sure, it'd be embarrassing, but at least I'd have my answer.<br /><br /><br />*<span style="font-size:85%;">Source: my stepmom</span>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-37453538129773590822008-02-22T13:35:00.000-05:002008-02-22T14:12:22.009-05:00Medical system, you leave me breathless. LiterallyWednesday was the big day. I woke up at 7am to finish my first paper for a literature professor who is legendary on campus for being critical of essays.<br /><br />At 10:30, I was forced to abandon my essay so I could present an outline of my work for anthropology class. Shortly after arriving, I noticed that I could not stop yawning. True, I had only gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Still, the continual yawning was rather embarrassing. After a while, my embarrassment shifted to concern: I was yawning about once a minute. Having already drank three cups of coffee and taken Adderall, this seemed a bit excessive.<br /><br />Now examining the yawns more critically, I pinpointed the reason for their constant return. Each time, I only got about 3/4 through before stopping. Concerned, I now tried yawning all the way through, but to no avail. I tried taking several deep breaths. Each one got cut off near the end, at which point a new yawn attacked.<br /><br />Being unable to breathe as I pleased was rather disconcerting. I was also tempted to announce the problem before a presentation in my second class, but realized that I only wanted to tell people this so they would forgive me if the presentation was sub-par. Instead, I gave my presentation and then yawned my way through the rest of the class.<br /><br />Worried that the problem would get worse or was caused by something like pneumonia, I went to my school's health center the next day. The only problem the nurse found was an enlarged thyroid gland. Apparently it was large enough to be partially obstructing my airway.<br /><br />Since I'm not in pain, my thyroid isn't getting larger, and my blood is still adequately oxygenated, all the nurse did was draw blood and make an appointment for an ultrasound of my thyroid... next Tuesday.<br /><br />Now I get to enjoy all the benefits of shallow breathing* and the appetizing prospect of hypothyroidism for around a week while I wait for results.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/R78eYg7ubMI/AAAAAAAAADo/BXTKR4ipUM0/s1600-h/waiting+room1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/R78eYg7ubMI/AAAAAAAAADo/BXTKR4ipUM0/s320/waiting+room1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169884303750753474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*These include but are not limited to: reduced guilt about not going to the gym, fear of walking, continued yawning, frustration, and simultaneous feelings of helplessness and uselessness.</span>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-46941782141587392772008-02-17T15:49:00.000-05:002008-02-17T15:55:21.430-05:00Not a normal reaction to commercialsHere I am, sitting like a bum at my desk and clicking the link to watch yet another episode of Arrested Development. This particular episode is brought to me by Pedigree. I mute the 30 second commercials as I wait for the next segment to begin playing and go about my business. But then an adorable puppy shows up on the screen and I just have to un-mute it to find out what's going on.<br /><br />I watch the following, almost cried, and then was unable to enjoy the rest of the show.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_ODC5e3AEa8&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_ODC5e3AEa8&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />That's not normal, is it? Or is audience tears what they're going for?The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-28008446796201651172008-02-12T23:07:00.000-05:002008-02-12T23:22:03.931-05:00How to get an internship at a television networkBefore the internship interview I had today, I:<br /><br />- Had to air-dry the white dress shirt I wore because the dryer broke down and I was out of quarters<br />- Forgot to air-dry the tank top that goes under it; wore only a bra underneath<br />- Waited too long to get ready because I was watching Dexter<br />- Didn't put on any eye make-up because I couldn't find it and was in a hurry because of Dexter (it was in plain sight in my medicine cabinet, of course)<br />- Left my cell phone behind so I couldn't check the time or call ahead in case I ran late<br />- Didn't take Adderall<br />- Didn't research the position AT ALL<br /><br />The first thing I did in the interview was complain about standing in the cold waiting for transportation. How charming.<br /><br />I also:<br />- Brought one resume for two interviewers and made a dumb joke about them fighting over the one copy<br />- Interrupted the interviewers more than once<br />- Changed a question they asked so I could answer in whatever way I wished. And yes, I notified them that I was changing the question.<br />- Admitted that I have almost no knowledge of/interest in the product made by the department<br />- When asked which television shows I like, listed only one that is produced by the network. Pointed this fact out and apologized for it, but failed to offer more shows.<br />- Used an analogy of being a puzzle piece as well as the puzzle solver (what the hell...)<br /><br /><br />Needless to say, they called me roughly four hours later to offer me the position.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-56928292628814173132007-12-31T16:55:00.000-05:002007-12-31T16:57:08.376-05:00Good to know...When looking for a book in your parents' bedroom, something you'd rather not come across:<br /><br />A box of Cialis.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-32017483098053079122007-12-22T19:19:00.000-05:002007-12-22T19:47:38.430-05:00All the airport is a stageI love airports.<br /><br />In almost any other location, we can look at people and make an educated guess about who they are. In the town near my school, people instantly know that I am a college student. In a business context, people are rightfully assume that I am entry level.<br /><br />In an airport, though, all you really know is 1) This person is probably not poor, and 2) They are going somewhere.<br /><br />When I fly, I'm almost always alone. This means that, for a period of several hours, I will be literally stuck in a place where nobody can figure out who I am except through what I wear.<br /><br />Usually there are a considerable number of businesspeople who are running to their next meeting. Though I have less business travel to do than a newborn, I like to dress like an aspiring CEO. When in this role, I tend to do some "work" on the ancient palm pilot that I never use. I get might get a Venti of something at Starbucks, make sure I get lipstick all over it, and check my watch a lot.<br /><br />One time I sat down near my gate, called a friend of mine, and I conducted the entire phone call in French.<br /><br />Now that I've perfected the businessperson role, I need to start playing some other personas when I fly.<br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146962499940734082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/R22vH7k5VII/AAAAAAAAADg/tI3aCv2aZP0/s320/2716765.jpg" border="0" /><br />Ehhh?The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-755249885344293302007-12-18T22:24:00.000-05:002007-12-18T22:36:57.097-05:00Don't look at me<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/R2iRqbk5VHI/AAAAAAAAADY/ZwqOI2XBvvc/s1600-h/Woman+Hiding+Face.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/R2iRqbk5VHI/AAAAAAAAADY/ZwqOI2XBvvc/s320/Woman+Hiding+Face.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145522732413834354" border="0" /></a><br /> On the streets of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>, eye contact is a dangerous thing.<span style=""> </span>It is dangerous because people think it is an invitation to engage.<span style=""> </span>When I make eye contact with a homeless person, they get to ask me for money.<span style=""> </span>When I meet the glance of a construction worker, he gets to name me “Mami” and ask how I’m doing.<span style=""> </span>When I look at a table of cheap purses and scarves as I walk by, the man selling them gets to ask me to stop for a minute. <p class="MsoNormal">It seems that everyone wants my money or my body.<span style=""> </span>Everyone else pretends I’m not there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">To live in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> is to feel constantly harassed when you go outside.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’m not used to being harassed.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know how to describe what it feels like to <i style="">not</i> be harassed, but imagine not really knowing what rain is and then suddenly every time you go outside, it’s raining.<span style=""> </span>You can’t avoid that.<span style=""> </span>It’s just there.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Recently, I tried to stop thinking of myself as a victim.<span style=""> </span>After all, I don’t <i style="">have</i> to avoid eye contact.<span style=""> </span>What if I’m the one harassing men who pass me on the sidewalk?<span style=""> </span>Then it’s my game.<span style=""> </span>That would be such a relief.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My first experiment was to stop breaking eye contact with people.<span style=""> </span>This did not provide the results I had hoped for. <span style=""> </span>Maintaining eye contact only revealed what men did after my eyes were usually glued to the pavement: they stared at the rest of my body.<span style=""> </span>The fact that I was watching them do it did not change this.<span style=""> </span>In fact, maintaining eye contact often only made things worse, since men like it when you look at them.<span style=""> </span>After all, eye contact is an invitation. <span style=""> </span>I felt powerless.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I concluded that sometimes ignoring things is the best way to make them disappear.<span style=""> </span>If I don’t watch long enough, I can pretend that the man in the elevator only looked at my face.<span style=""> </span>This can work in any area of life, I’ve found.<span style=""> </span>If I pretend that I can’t hear the cell phone vibrating in someone’s purse during a meeting, then it didn’t really ring.<span style=""> </span>And it most certainly wasn’t my cell phone.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So I returned to averting my eyes.<span style=""> </span>Still, it’s hard to actually not notice someone staring at me for an entire elevator ride.<span style=""> </span>And to then pretend that they’re not watching my ass while I walk out.*<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I thought I could deal with the harassment, but it’s starting to suffocate me.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just as bad is the ignoring.<span style=""> </span>The people who don’t harass you simply pretend that you do not exist.<span style=""> </span>Today I felt like screaming. <span style=""> </span>I was walking to the train station on the person-wide trail carved out of the ice on the sidewalk. <span style=""> </span>If someone came from the opposite direction, it was obvious that one of us would need to step aside, onto the ice, in order for the other person to pass.<span style=""> </span>No matter, though.<span style=""> </span>Every single person who passed me just kept going, staring straight ahead.<span style=""> </span>Nobody stopped, nobody acknowledged my presence by stepping up on the ice, or, I don’t know, maybe looking at me.<span style=""> </span>I was the one who stepped on the ice.<span style=""> </span>Every single time.<span style=""> </span><br /><o:p></o:p><br />I might be ready to be that “FUCK YOU” person.<span style=""> </span>Because, seriously, fuck them.</p><br /> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">*Is the whole “Ladies first” thing just a ploy to look at our asses?</span></p>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-46049860831715908742007-12-17T15:16:00.000-05:002007-12-17T17:23:19.661-05:00Notes, lists, and my Diet Coke storyReminder: Putting alcohol in water bottle may seem like a good idea at the time, but will make water smell like alcohol in the future. Get a flask already.<br /><br />Things I keep trying to quit ingesting:<br />- Corn syrup<br />- Hydrogenated oil<br />- Diet coke<br />- Coffee<br />- Pasta/bread/other processed grain<br />- Fried food<br />- Meat<br /><br />So far no luck.<br /><br />I first tried to quit drinking Diet Coke when I was a sophomore in college. I'm not sure what made me want to quit more: knowing that it's really bad for you, or knowing that I was addicted.<br /><br />The realization that I couldn't go a day without a Diet Coke was sort of funny, but sort of tragic. If it had been a line of cocaine instead of a bottle of soda, it would be much easier to motivate myself to quit. But soda is such an acceptable beverage, there is no stigma to carrying around a soda. When I told people I wanted to quit drinking it, people laughed. It was as though I had just told them I was trying to quit eating olives.<br /><br />I was able to stop drinking Diet Coke for a good month or two. It was pretty damn hard. I remember I had a Diet Coke that I had left in the communal fridge, for emergencies (yes, I have Diet Coke cravings). I once ran to the fridge and rummaged around, panicking when I realized that some bitch in my house had drank my emergency Diet Coke.<br /><br />When I came back home for summer break, L gave me a shirt emblazoned with "Diet Coca-Cola." She said that she bought it because she when she saw it in the store, she thought of me. This was a sort of tragic moment. Like when all of a sudden you realize that people think of you every single time they see the color purple because you are obsessed with it.*<br /><br />I have unsuccessfully tried quitting Diet Coke several times since. I know it's not as bad as being addicted to heroin, but before I tried to quit Diet Coke, I hadn't known that I was susceptible to addiction at all.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* That happened with a friend of mine from high school</span>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com64tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-16170998975608022232007-12-15T13:40:00.000-05:002007-12-15T14:11:30.741-05:00Notes on an ADD scandalWhen I emailed my mom about seeing the psychologist to get tested for ADD, she responded: "I am beginning to think we all have ADD." She then cited having too much to do as the problem. I don't know exactly what she really thinks about this issue, but I do know that she refused to put my ADD brother on medication even though he almost failed out of high school. Needless to say, I simply can't <span style="font-style: italic;">wait </span>to spend time with my mother during the holidays.<br /><br />I saw the psychologist on Thursday, and he said that based on the test I took, it is "highly probable" that I have ADD. Since it's not as though you can draw blood and test it to find your answer, that appears to be as official as it gets. I'm sure my mom will love hearing that.<br /><br />To get to the psychologist's office, a mile from the train station, I waded through two feet of snow on a busy highway with no sidewalk while a sheet of icy sleet slapped against my flimsy umbrella. The psychologist called me intrepid when I got to his office, which I guess is appropriate, although I was thinking more along the lines of "poor" or "dumbass" or "don't know the number for the local cab service." As I was leaving I silently pleaded for him to drive me to the train. No such luck. I started back, and just as I began to think "It's not THAT bad walking in the dark during a snowstorm with no gloves, kiddo!", an SUV pulled up beside me.<br /><br />"Do you need a ride?" I heard.<br /><br />I turned to face the car and quickly scanned the interior: a woman driving two little girls seated in the back. Since it didn't resemble the opening scene of a horror movie, I gratefully accepted the offer.<br /><br />I've never accepted a ride from a stranger before, and wasn't quite sure about the etiquette. Obviously I thanked them, but then what? Do you let the driver run the conversation? Do you attempt to provide entertainment as payment for their kindness?<br /><br />"Headed home?" I asked, when nobody spoke up.<br /><br />"No, we're just going for a drive," Replied the mother.<br /><br />Who the fuck just drives around for fun in the middle of an ice storm? I thought. This seemed a little bit more like that horror movie.<br /><br />"How fun!" I said, also thinking about how environmentally irresponsible pleasure-driving is. Here was a woman wasting gas by driving for FUN in an SUV. Basically, my enemy. <br /><br />Funny how I'll bite my tongue as long as someone's helping me out... I guess I understand Republicans now.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-44119726782237936082007-12-13T00:21:00.000-05:002007-12-13T00:59:15.839-05:00Lost in thoughts.... about thoughts... wait. What?I'm getting tested for ADD.<br /><br />My dad was diagnosed a few years ago. He researched it, talked to professionals about it, and started taking Adderall. In high school, he took my brother to get tested. My brother was also diagnosed, and after taking Adderall his grades went from D's to B's.<br /><br />I've always done well at school, but mostly because I know how to bullshit. I never actually read most of the books that are assigned to me, even though I am taking classes that interest me. I have other symptoms as well: I tune people out in conversation (even when I am interested), I start projects but don't finish them, I can't read more than two sentences to a page at a time without getting distracted. <br /><br />It's gotten to the point where I feel like I have no idea what the hell I am doing, every day. And I hate it. No matter how many lists I write, I can neither complete things on the list nor find it. The more this happens, the worse I feel about myself. Why can't I read a book?<br /><br />The thing that really scares me, though, is having to figure out what the problem is if I <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span> have ADD.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-30897328346358685622007-12-10T21:33:00.000-05:002007-12-10T21:55:29.041-05:00A Loudmouth momentThere's this girl in my film class (let's go with the name Loudmouth) who is so horrendously irritating that I actually cringe every time I am near her. She's one of the people who tell you the most mind numbing stories you're likely to hear in your entire lifetime. Clipping my toenails is more entertaining than listening to her speak.<br /><br />She loves to point out things that are better left alone. In class today, she giggled and announced: "You're blushing!" to someone who had just shown their film and was waiting for our critique. How kind.<br /><br />Last week, she started an argument with our professor in front of the entire class. Maybe it seemed like a good idea to her, but the prof certainly didn't seem to think so.<br /><br />Tonight I went out to dinner with two of my friends from class (if greasy fast-food really counts as dinner). I put my hands on each of their shoulders and said: "Raise your hands if you think Loudmouth has Tourette's!"<br /><br />Neither of them rose their hands.<br /><br />Needless to say, I felt pretty stupid. Still, me being a bitch does not change the fact that I daydream about duct taping Loudmouth's lips together.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-40798049732967405332007-12-09T22:21:00.000-05:002007-12-09T22:58:43.765-05:00No more entertainmentFor some reason, I always thought that I had to entertain people with my blog posts. I wasn't allowed to be boring. Something that's boring isn't post-able.<br /><br />Well fuck that.<br /><br />Caring so much about entertaining everybody who reads what I write is exhausting. I think instead I will write whatever I want. <br /><br />I'll start with a few things I never would have shared before.<br /><br />- Yesterday I danced topless with my friends. It was fun.<br />- I really like pot. I started smoking it by myself this year.<br />- I hate the US. I don't know what country I like better, but I plan to look into that.<br />- Pop culture makes me angry. A lot of it is degrading to women, which I can't stand, which brings me to my next point:<br />- I am a feminist.<br /><br />That's all the honesty I think I can squeeze out of myself for now.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-65022703846852044702007-11-10T14:22:00.002-05:002007-11-10T15:56:55.272-05:00Embarrassing aspirationsI want to be a filmmaker.<br /><br />You know how we make fun of the waiters who tell you they're aspiring actors? "They're never going to make it," "If they need to wait tables, they must not be very good." All those things we say about people we don't even know. I feel like that actor. I'm not a waitress, but I'm definitely not paying any bills with my student films. And, knowing that people say these cruel things about people who haven't "made it," I feel like I have to hide behind something more respectable than "aspiring filmmaker."<br /><br />When I read "The Tools of Screenwriting" on the train, I make sure the cover is facing down. When I tell people that I want to be a filmmaker, I feel like adding on "but I know that's probably not realistic." <br /><br />I don't know why it matters to me that other people think I am reasonable, that I understand that filmmaking will not be a walk in the park. I don't know why I should feel embarrassed. It's not embarrassing. I want to be a filmmaker.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-50963509981202289852007-11-03T03:52:00.001-04:002007-11-03T04:00:22.356-04:00Mmm Mmm GoodYou know what's become a good drunk food for me? Soup.<br /><br />I thought it was because it's really, really easy to make. You open the can, pour it into a bowl, microwave.<br /><br />While I was making my soup tonight, though, I realized it's not just due to the ease. While I was eating, I looked down into my bowl, then quickly averted my gaze and thought: it's better if I don't know what it looks like.<br /><br />And it's easier to not look if I'm drunk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/Rywqacn-41I/AAAAAAAAADQ/c3-IRjjzZQo/s1600-h/soup.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 167px; height: 257px;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/Rywqacn-41I/AAAAAAAAADQ/c3-IRjjzZQo/s320/soup.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128520709517009746" border="0" /></a><br />Anyone else? Would you rather know, or not know?The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-49473579645063115452007-10-28T15:19:00.001-04:002007-10-28T15:41:03.041-04:00On musicIn fifth grade, my school system finally introduced us to a music program. You could choose a stringed instrument in fifth grade, or a band instrument in sixth. I wanted to be in the band because my older brother played trumpet, but I started violin anyway. In the middle of fifth grade, my family moved to Belgium.<br /><br />I went to a private international school while I was there, since I couldn't speak the language and would likely be held back at least two years in the Belgian school system. Also, the government was paying for the school. Nice.<br /><br />On my first day, I had no idea what was going on. People dragged me around everywhere, and at one point it was "music period." <br /><br />"What do you play?" They asked.<br /><br />"Violin," I told them. Before I could qualify that with my desire to be a flutist, they took me to the orchestra room.<br /><br />For the next three years, I was a violinist. At first, I was like many a player: I didn't practice at home, and didn't really care much about class. One day, though, something seemed to lock into place. I started practicing at home, I played to get my emotions out, and I joined the after school ensemble.<br /><br />Our orchestra group went to The Netherlands to play in a student competition with a bunch of other schools. At the end of the day, the judges' top choices for each instrument played. I remember watching the violinist play her amazing solo. My friends were whispering to each other about where to eat lunch, but I was transfixed. The violin she was holding was almost immaterial; it seemed as though it was just being used as a tool to express what she was trying to say. I was stunned.<br /><br />One day back at school, the orchestra teacher brought in a jazz piece. I had never encountered jazz music before, and I was new to the concept of solos. The teacher had me go first, and I got a little lost in the experiment. I started really getting into it, and eventually the teacher had to stop everyone to remind me that the solo only goes on for a certain number of measures. I was jolted, as if out of a trance, and immediately embarrassed. But we didn't get right back to playing.<br /><br />"TAB," said the teacher, with a look of bewilderment. "What did you just do?"<br /><br />Everyone was looking at me.<br /><br />"What? Did I do it wrong?" I asked, my cheeks getting hot.<br /><br />"No. That was amazing."<br /><br />That year, I became first violinist and won the prize for Most Valuable Player.<br /><br />When we moved back to the US, I was put in the back of the second violinist section, in an orchestra group four times bigger than I had previously played. After long enough, I became convinced that the conductor didn't know my name. I remember being shocked when she mentioned my name in class in reference to a composition assignment. My mom stopped paying for a private tutor. Two years later, I quit orchestra to take theatre. I have barely touched my violin in the five years since then.<br /><br />I think I am going to start playing again.The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4444239424280440405.post-9788808056922417862007-10-27T11:38:00.000-04:002007-10-27T12:25:27.487-04:00Covered walkways: Some guidelines<div>Where I'm from (the suburbs), people get pretty excited when there is construction. "What's going on here?" They ask. Or, "Is it going to be a GAP?" In New York City, construction is not a novelty. I discovered this when I started going to my new internship in The Village. When I left the building for lunch or a bitch errand, I noticed that every block or two there was scaffolding and makeshift sidewalks, made out of plank wood and about two people wide. "I guess this area is doing a lot of renovations," I thought.<br /><br />My bitch errands soon took me to various other Manhattan locations, where I noticed there was also plenty of scaffolding and ogling construction men. These walkways were everywhere, and I really liked them. Every time I walked into one, I imagined it was leading me somewhere other than the next block. You can't see where each tunnel is going to take you, with its walls and sharp turns. And the best part was the temptation to slip into the often open doors, the construction site. I could hide out and eavesdrop on the contractors arguing over salary and deadlines.<br /></div><br /><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126053366769574706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_KFspMO9vkeA/RyNmYMn-4zI/AAAAAAAAADE/vGQh526Vep0/s320/walkway.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>So it really bothers me when other pedestrians ruin my walkway experience. In response, and in keeping with my rabidly passive aggressive tradition, I have come up with some rules of etiquette that I think ought to be posted at each of these walkways.<br /><br /></div><br /><ul><br /><li>New York is a busy city. When coming around a corner, it is often the case that someone else will be travelling in the opposite direction (!). Do not glare at them just because they happened to be in what you thought was <em>your</em> way. Remember: your presence is just as unwelcome to them as theirs is to you.</li><br /><li>If you are walking next to somebody (and thus taking up the entirety of the walkway) on your merry stroll, remember that other people actually <em>do</em> exist and might also need room. Again, try not to glare at them: their walking in the opposite direction is not meant as a personal attack.*</li><br /><li>When it is raining, I understand that there is a dilemma: do you close your umbrella for a single block or do you keep it open? This, I cannot help you with. But if you decide to close it, remember that most people generally do not enjoy being showered with your umbrella water while you are doing so. If you opt to leave it open, do not be so surprised when you see that someone walking the opposite direction has also left their umbrella open. Do not be so entitled as to think that you needn't make an effort to avoid hitting them in the face.**</li></ul><br /><div>Remember, people don't like you as much as you think they do. Also, your mom lied: you can't really be <em>anything</em> you want when you grow up. I, for example, wanted to be Native American.*** Now do you see why I'm so bitter?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*Except when it's me. I knew you were coming, and I hate you.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">** I did a poll. People don't like this. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*** This is actually true. Pre colonialism, of course. Eventually I moved on to some thing more realistic. Japanese.</span></div>The Accidental Bitchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17234042975462916572noreply@blogger.com2