I’d clearly make it as an international spy

People are always asking me about my roommates and honestly, I can’t tell you a thing about them. Seriously, I don’t even know their last names, or even how to spell their first names.

I don’t even have their numbers even though I offered them mine and they took it…is that like roommate rejection? I didn’t think it’d be that big of a problem until coincidentally enough today on the bus to work I began to wonder if I turned the stove off. Cue the inner panic that’s rapidly mounting when I realize our fire alarm is of course disabled and oh god I’m gonna come home in 8 hours to a whole apartment complex of smoke and ash and why do I not have my roommate’s number?? Don’t worry y’all. The apartment’s fine.

But anyway. One of the things my roommates like to do is lock the deadbolt on the door so I can’t get in even if I have the key. Normally this is okay because I just ring the doorbell and they open the door and we’ll exchange our one word of the day (“Hi,” or sometimes even “hey!”), unless their friend is there in which case then we can start talking. Is it weird that I’m better friends with their friend than I am with them?

Sidetracked again–the bus rounds the corner on the ride home and I see my lovely, lovely apartment quad standing there so beautifully unscathed by any sort of fire that would result from a silly, careless girl who left the stove on. and then because my brain hates me I begin to wonder if maybe my roommate is dead (too morbid?) from carbon monoxide poisoning and maybe it’s one of those things where the fire is contained and I’ll open the door and BOOM, you know like in the movies? Does this even make logical sense? Someone let me know.

I feel the door, and it’s not hot–good sign, right? It won’t open though, because it’s been locked again from the inside since I left. Initial joy that my roommate is not dead inside is quickly replaced with annoyance after waiting for about 30 seconds…she’s taking a nap and can’t hear the doorbell.

I scout the area. The balcony railing looks climbable, even though it comes up to my chin and there’s only one notch like thing for me to put my feet on. But I watch too much Jason Bourne and I think I can do it.

The chair we keep out there is on the other side, which slightly annoys me. It’d be so much more convenient because then I can just step down efficiently and gracefully instead of potentially falling down. A few jumps and a couple of squashed bushes later (sorry) though, I’M IN (albeit in a very inefficient and ungraceful way).

Because I then realize I could have just climbed the other side to use the chair.

I’m throwing myself a pity party

It’s 8:52, which means there’s only 8 minutes left, but you’re all invited. Because misery loves company, but you know what’s even better? Having misery AND all your friends with you feeling sorry for you.

Whoops, seven minutes.

Six minutes because I don’t know what to write.

Here’s the thing about feeling sorry for yourself. It feels great, because you get to complain and play the world’s smallest violin and if you have great friends (read: suckers) you can get all their sympathy, and maybe even get some sympathy cookies too.

I’m talking small potato feeling sorry things here. The kind of things that happen because it’s usually somehow in a little way your fault and you realize it but you’re still allowed to feel sorry for yourself right before you begin hating yourself. Usually they’re first world complaints, like “wah wah wah I can’t finish my filet mignon.” “wah wah wah I forgot to tell starbucks I wanted my latte iced”

Today it’s things like like “it’s over 100 degrees outside but I’m sick and have a sore throat and stuffy nose and I’m constantly cold and THESE PEOPLE KEEP TURNING THE AIR UP AND I’M TURNING INTO A POPSICLE.”

or, “I came home late from work and all I wanted to do was fall into my bed and find sanctuary from my sickness. Instead I found bed bugs all over the apartment.”

or “wah wah wah I really really wish I bought those apples but I was too lazy to carry them for the THREE MINUTE WALK HOME and now I’m hungry and sick and all I want to eat is an apple.”

By the way, all these things are happening to me. See what I did there? I started complaining about my problems in such a subtle way I bet you didn’t even know you were being complained at!

Now where are my cookies?

and then I walked around high off the caffeine fumes

What I wore to work today, sorta:


This is my “I am Unamused face.”

You might be wondering why I would ever want to wear anything other than my requisite red or blue polo shirt. I do not have an answer for this.

You might also be wondering why I am so very, very unamused. I do have an answer for this! But first, there are a couple of things you should know:

  1. The dining hall provides free, surprisingly good coffee all day.
  2. I like free things.
  3. The automatic doors, while heavy and cumbersome to open by hand, could cause one to grow grey hairs waiting for it to open by itself.
  4. For some reason, today there were no lids for the coffee cups.
  5. The guy walking behind us decided he was no match for the unwieldy door already being propped open by two 20 year old girls.

You may already have a general idea of what happens next. If your idea is that as we walked through one of the double doors, the guy behind us decided he could not slip through the ALREADY OPEN DOOR but needed to push the automatic door button, prompting the second door to open without warning on my fellow intern, spilling her un-lidded cup of coffee all down her shirt–well, then you are wrong.

Because that happened to me.

Conclusion: either the uniform gods were smiling down on me by willing me to wear a flowered blouse on which a whole cup of spilled coffee would never show, or they were showing me their wrath at my abandonment of the polo shirts.

Also, I believe my unamused face could also double as my bored face. This is not bad acting; this  is  multi-tasking.

cliché on cliché on cliché

The other day I told someone I was 19 years old.

“No-No. 20.” I blurted out thirty seconds later. “Sorry, I’m twenty.”

It seemed silly then; insignificant at the time, like forgetting to put sugar in my coffee or pushing the floor button in an elevator. Because more often than not the stranger who gets on next will stand there with me a moment until finally reaching over to press “G.” I’ll laugh sheepishly, but it’ll happen again the next day. So I’m still getting used to not being a teenager anymore, you see. I’ve only been twenty for 42 days.


Sometimes I feel like (warning: cliché) my life is over before its even begun. Graduate. Get a job. Work eight hours a day, go home, eat, sleep, repeat. In a blink of an eye, I’ll be 50.

Other times I feel like (warning: cliché) my life is just beginning. Because I’m twenty goddamn it and everyone knows that’s the age that you–find yourself! Discover what you were truly meant to be! Change the world!

Remember when we were young and we dreamed as big as we wanted because everyone knew we’d grow out of it some day? I told people I’d be the first female president of the United States.  Then I went to school and realized that politics just depress me. I also dreamed of being a Neopets millionare, and when I finally achieved that, I forgot my password. Every so often I think about my poor, starving meerca and the 176 neopoints I’m losing every day in bank interest. Now I wonder if he’s still alive. Can neopets die?

Somewhere along the way I became half-hearted, content. I lost my passion for—for what? Living? Life? Dreaming? Have my own musings really become such a cliché?

It’s okay though. It’s only been 42 days. For now.

-Edit- How ironic that after a re-read I’ve noticed that telling myself “It’s only been 42 days” only reinforces my  passiveness.

june 6

It is currently 8:17 am and once again I hate myself for not going to bed earlier.

Let the cycle of self loathing begin!

may 24

Today I brought a whole thermos of espresso to work.

This is acceptable because 1. I have quite a high caffeine tolerance and 2. It is very draining, both physically and mentally, for me to be on my best behavior for eight hours a day. (Example: gracefully eating a burrito at lunch with my boss on the first day of work. Challenge accepted and-still-in-the-process-of-completing.)

In other, more interesting news, today I wore my red shirt to work. After careful consideration, I realized that all asians look good in red so I’d definitely impress all the people who wait at the door for me to show up in the morning. Then I came home and looked in the mirror and realized that I was wrong.

may 23

Today I wore my navy blue polo to work because I knew that I would be outside at a catering event for 6 hours in sunny 93 degree weather. And I just like to make my life miserable like that.

No picture because I’m lazy, I forgot, I didn’t realize how awkward it is taking a picture of your outfit, I still awkwardly took a picture of myself and promptly deleted it, etc etc.

It’s all part of a learning process.