Tag Archives: work

Hot Mess Express: Your 20’s Suck and Your Shit’s NOT Together

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When I imagined my twenties as an 18 yr old entering college, I pictured myself living with a hot “struggling artist” boyfriend in some cool city like NYC, writing politically-conscious stories for Cosmo or Elle magazine, but secretly (but never admittedly) pining for the job as the classless blow-job-tip article-writer.  I never imagined myself hating the real world as much as I do and hoping for some boring and rich guy working some Chandler-Bing-esque 9-5 to swoop me away into a life of financial security. Had I known what life after college REALLY looks like, I would’ve filled my ’97 Volvo S70 with canned goods and driven straight to LA to pursue my (and every other self-absorbed 18-year-old in 2006’s) dream of becoming Lindsay Lohan pre-Herbie Fully Loaded.

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Eventually, I would’ve spent all my rent money on weed and extacy and called my parents crying and begging for a plane ticket home.

As I sit here and write this, I see this alternate life sounds 10x less shitty than the life that my college-educated friends and I have.

Having your shit together after college means you’ve consolidated your loans. It means you’ve ONLY $50K in debt and don’t live in the suburbs. You work a job that requires 3-5 years experience OR a college degree. You’re in school for something, even though you’re racking up more debt and you’re still unsure of whether or not you actually like it.

Having your shit together after college means your roommates aren’t your parents, or if they are, you’re at least enjoying home-cooked meals while you waste 20 hrs a week working at Costco while slowly picking away at those FUCKING loans.

I don’t mean to sound cynical, but it sucks. Your 20’s suck because they’re being spent building towards less-suckage.

Right now, I consider myself lucky. I’m in school, I have a job and I live on my own in some joke of a city outside of the actual city.  Some of my friends tell me I’m “together,” despite the fact that I’m 3 years away from $250K worth of debt and I have the emotional maturity of a 12 year old BOY. In addition to this, life after college for me sucked ALL THE WAY up until this point. I got laid-off from some job I absolutely hated, I got fired from another job as a waitress and I spent my fun-employment on Sporcle.com and filling out HOURS LONG applications to random administrative positions I never got call-backs for.

YOUR. TWENTIES. SUCK. And because your life sucks and is up in the air, you’re selfish, which makes you an annoying person to be friends with and even more annoying to date. I mean, how are you supposed to give a shit about others beyond superficial gChat convos when you feel your life getting sucked away with every Outlook email?

I’m not sure if this all changes, or we get used to it. Maybe into my 30’s I’ll be conditioned into this life as a mindless drone working towards that house downpayment which feels like a cruel joke to me now.

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Guess I’ll get wasted this weekend and take my shoes off and cry about how much my life sucks after I get kicked out of a dive bar for pushing someone and telling them to fuck off. But my Instagram pictures will make it look like I party like Prince Harry and give as many fucks as Ke$ha.


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My Hypothetical Life as a Sex Worker

Don’t jump to conclusions, FBI. I’m not a prostitute.

However, I’d be lying if I said I never thought about it. Upscale hookers could make like $3k in a night. Do I make that in a month? I don’t want to answer that question.

I owe approximately a BAJILLION dollars to Sallie Mae and other federal/state loan companies I whored my debt onto and sold my soul to for an education. If I was an escort for ONE NIGHT a week and made, say, $1k-2k each time, I’d pay of all that debt off in no time.

Downpayment on a house? NO PROBLEMO, brah. I’d work 2-3 times a week and that money’s in the BANK, dude. Then I could spend the rest of my time working part-time as a writer. All my whore stories would eventually buy me an awesome book deal.

Now, my Catholic upbringing would never allow me to do this. If I got paid for sex ONE TIME, I’d fear the wrath of God coming down from the heavens to blacken my already-charred human soul. Saint Peter would shake his head and then shun me from ever entering the pearly gates of heaven. He’d white-out my name from his list of “Ones to be Saved” for eternity.

But, that’s just me. In another life and in another world I’d do it. (Haha “do it”! Get it? I’m so funny, aren’t I?)

I’d be the happy hooker, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women, except I wouldn’t walk the streets. It’d be more of a referral-based type of hookering (Or is it ‘hooking’?). I’d create a solid base of clientele and work only for myself. I’ve got good business sense and I wouldn’t want to give anybody else a cut of MY cha-ching, ya know?

So, would you ever sell your bod to pay bills? Have you thought about it?

Image courtesy of this random website I found via google search


Filed under L-O-V-E, Work

Pretty %$#(ing Bitchy, Dude

Ok, so I dont think I ever really became a bitch until I started to work full-time. This is because I was less miserable in life when I was living like a fucking LA rapper in college with parties 24/7 and no real job or debt. Now, it’s harder NOT to be a bitch when I go into work to make stupid small talk about weekend plans and the weather instead of crawling out of bed at 11AM to smoke weed through the upstairs bathroom vents.

I’m mostly a bitch because of the things I don’t say or react to more so than from being confrontational or having an attitude. I can’t control or fake reactions to stupid things people say or do that they consider funny. My college-self would be able to produce a seemingly-genuine belly laugh or at least a smile, whereas my real world self now grunts, turns around and stares into the computer screen as if there is work to do.

Thus, I’ve become some sort of a bitch.

I know it could be worse with all of this “Occupy” shit going on, but I’m finding it harder and harder to not run out of my office and crawl back into bed. Gahhhh

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