flicker and flame like the bright lights

Ewwwweee.

Jun 28, 2007
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I've made a couple of mistakes at work lately that have me questioning why I even bothered getting involved with PR in the first place. For one -- I was a journalism major in school, and I prided myself on the whole "I'm a writer, I don't need to get my story ideas from press releases, I'm innovative and oh-so-inquisitive." Then I slapped myself across the face with my B.A. and realized that anyone who makes money with a journalism degree is either a) a Vanderbilt by blood, or b) working in PR. Granted, I work for a wire service. So I'm not really a spin doctor...I'm like a spin nurse, or a spin medical assistant, or something along those lines. I'm not writing, I merely edit. But apparently, I suck at editing.

Anyway, the revelation I had while getting gently lectured by my boss was one of, "What the hell am I doing?" The work in itself is not gratifying. I like the fact that the people who work for the company seem really spunky; a typical day is not unlike an episode of "The Office," simply because everyone has these really wild stereotypical personalities (I'm the token minority, btw). But I'm feeling horrifically unfulfilled. I don't know if it's because I'm still learning or because the work is so dry. But banality + high stakes business shit = irregular heartbeat at night. For instance, I edited a releast for a company that will go unnamed but had to issue a massive recall of their product recently...and I forgot a vital part of the release that would actually allow it to post online. And not only did the flagship office know about it (the whole fucking office of 100), my entire satellite office of 15 knew as well. Since I work swings, I show up at 3:30 and find out that lo and behold, everyone's read the goddamn email about it.

Interoffice communication can suck the balls I don't have.

I need to blow $200 on a bridesmaid dress this week. There go my big plans to buy a PS2. Fucking hell. Let me indulge my selfishness, whydontcha.

I've become my own worst nightmare

Jun 11, 2007
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I'm overprivileged -- a narc -- solidly middle-class. I say this only because I just came in from having a smoke, and the last time I went out to have one, about two hours ago, there was a wild-eyed black girl in a hoodie with a serious case of B.O. sitting in the lobby. Another girl was coming in as I came out, and the black girl followed her in. The other girl asked the black girl if she lived in the building, to which the black girl muttered something along the lines of, "I forgot my keys, but I live here." I didn't buy it, because the only black people that live in my building are a) Muslims, b) extremely friendly and c) not smelly in the least. I let it slide, thinking the girl just needed a place to keep warm...at the same time, it's not that cold tonight. But whatever. I'm a registered Democrat, so I let her squat.

But she was still there when I went out for my last smoke, and I ran into one of the maintenance guys having his last smoke of the night too, so I figured, enough was enough. So she's outside right now, probably wishing for my slow and painful death. I feel bad, but if I go out for another one, I'm gonna bring my mace and my cell phone. Fuck that. My nice tendencies only last so long. And Seattle is full of extremely rude homeless people anyway. I give you my spare dollars -- you better fucking be nice to me.

(Of course, a guy outside of the Harvard Market told me I was beautiful, so perhaps I'd lay off the blanket statements, right?)

Rudeness isn't exactly typical of the homeless here, anyway. It's typical of everyone. Shoving, cutting people off in cars, insane-ass pedestrians all over the street, vomit on the sidewalks, stranding me outside the elevators at work...I think I'm too used to southwestern charm. I hope I never forget it. (I still have aspirations of moving to Texas one day, although you'll never hear me admit that at work.)

Let's get random

Jun 7, 2007
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Ah yes, my little subversive corner of the universe...it is certainly nice to be here. The point of this whole thing is just to let me freewrite without worrying about all my friends making stupid silly comments, e.g.: "Remember when you admitted to everyone at that party that you slept with ____________ (insert random guy's name here) at __________ (insert disgustingly scuzzy location of hookup here, e.g. abandoned golf course bathroom...ugh, the lows to which i sink) and humiliating me. I'm sick of being humiliated. That's what high school reunions are for, seriously. And weddings. Oh my God, I'm not looking forward to October at all, best friend's wedding or not.

First things first: it has been a hell of a week. My boss got fired at work on Monday. Now, granted, he wasn't my direct superior, BUT STILL. (I had a friend in college who hated to hear me say that, so "BUT STILL!" has worked its way into my lexicon quite stealthily, out of spite.) I could not believe that they flew out a bigwig from Boston to do the firing directly to his face. That kills me, in a good and bad way. (Good, because it must suck balls to be fired over the phone or, God forbid, through email...bad, because, you know, he got FIRED and didn't give anyone any notice.)

Today, we raided his office and took his personalized stationary for scratch paper. I wouldn't have done it without some gentle encouragement from one of the ladies there that's worked there for 20 something years, practically as long as I've been alive. Crap, I feel old most of the time, but around the office, I feel like a fucking kid. I hate that feeling. But hey, now I've got some notepads with my old boss's name on them, so life could be worse.

I got blitzed on Saturday. That was interesting, considering I haven't had a drink since March. I'm a freak: I'm in my twenties and I didn't touch a drop of alcohol for almost 3 months. It just doesn't have the same cachet that it did when it was illegal; going to Mexico was always a delight in and of itself, since you never knew when a cop was gonna shake you down for the $50 in your sock. And no drunk these days can possibly compare to blacking out in a club in Tokyo and miraculously waking up in a gutter with my friends leering at me. Those were the goddamn days.

It occurred to me, sitting on my ass at work today, that I haven't gotten laid since March, either. In a way, the whole long-distance relationship thing is good for me, because it keeps me from going out and being insane like the last time I was single. My ex-boyfriend has no idea I slept with one of his best friends, and I'd like to keep it that way, because it was a one-time useless experience that I wish I hadn't had. Oh well. I can't reclaim that shit now. What I wish I had done, however, was sleep with that really cute Mexican guy I met at that party. Too bad he had a girlfriend. Which he conveniently forgot to mention before sticking his tongue down my throat. Guys are pigs. Bigger pigs than I am, anyway.

Work lurks just around the corner and the sky's getting light. Swing shifts are messing with my circadian rhythms, and I need to get up and buy some smokes before I go to work. Smoking in Seattle makes one feel a little bit like an outsider, mostly because there are a lot of freakish hippie types who enjoy eating brown rice. Fuck that. I'm Asian, and I dig my white rice, and no amount of organic produce fans or Atkins dieters is gonna keep me from what I love.

Also, my back hurts from tearing apart the new boss's digs. I Saran-Wrapped his phone. He mentioned today that my six-month review is coming up. He's lucky I didn't wrap the entire doorway shut.