we've come so far... haven't we?so tomorrow's my birthday. come midnight, i'm one year older... well, technically, come late afternoon tomorrow, i'm one year older. point is: one more year down the drain.a year goes by -- a year we promised ourselves would be lived differently, more actively, with more purpose, with a better sense of self, with more life -- and everything looks different, seems more active and more purposeful, but really none of it has changed all that much. nothing ever really does.i had such grand ideas for where i'd be at 23. from the earnest of high school, from the yesteryears of study halls and note passing, i planned my life, and as naive as the whole scheming may have been, at least some part of me has continued to work toward that plan. at 17, i will graduate from high school at the top of my class. (x)that following autumn at the age of 18, i will enroll at harvard (or maybe columbia) for my freshmen year of university. [harvard and columbia sent me applications, but when faced with the possibility that they may not accept me, i decided it was better to choose not to follow the plan than to fail while trying to accomplish it... so a miss (o)]at 22 with my degree in psychology (or maybe theater or even journalism), i will enter the working world as a forensic psychologist (or actor or journalist) in new york city and attempt to meet my soulmate. [let's see... degree in communications from the university of illinois which is close to journalism, but not quite... definitely don't have a job i like and have not met anyone i know to be my soulmate, though buckets is quite nice... so another miss... well, a partial miss (c)]at 23 having been seriously together for a year, i will get engaged and then subsequently married. [uh, yeah, probably not going to happen... (o)]at 25 after 2 years of marital bliss, we will have our first child - a boy. [need i say more than (o)?]at 27, our second child will be born (a girl this time), and we will move to london and get a french nanny so the children will grow up at least bilingual. (o)at 29, baby number 3 (another boy) will join the family, completing the ultimate child configuration of boy-girl-boy. (o) (though i do still agree with the boy-girl-boy child arrangement)at 31, we will begin to travel the world with babies in tow; the children (and myself) will get to see the world and experience things most never do. [i wish, i hope (o)]at 35, having traveled the world and with our eldest son just turning 10, we will move back to chicago to be near my family. (o)i think the original plan went upwards of my 50+ years, but i feel a little silly looking back at this. to think i actually wrote this down so i could refer to it. to think it was taped to the door of my locker at school. to think this was what i thought, felt, knew would happen to me. to think this is what i wanted. to think in many ways this is what i still want.sometimes i don't think i have the ability to distinguish between the dreams i should hold onto and those that just need to be let go. i'm almost one year older, but i never seem to grow up. let go. move on. eyes looking to the future with both feet in the past. tomorrow, i turn 23. i'm supposed to get married this year.p.s. i just realized the miss symbols looked like boobs or buttholes or something else kinda not-so-right... also, be on the look out for my post about pride weekend (i'm trying to figure out a way to get the photos off my camera without the cable designed to facilitate such a task) because believe me, a whole lot more happened other than me sitting on a birdhouse in bucktown... yes, i was mistaken at 6 am when i sent that audiolog. it was not wicker park at all.
i'm all up in my own woo, today.
all day i've been very heady, so much so that it's really hard to articulate exactly what i'm thinking. i've been reading a lot lately, and it really has me tossing things around upstairs. it's got me all antsy. it's making me a little bit crazy and a lotta bit uneasy. it's all about me. it's all about pride.
while i love "pride weekend" with its crowded, tourist-filled bars and the spectacle of a sunday-afternoon parade, the driving force behind, the resonating spirit within, the utopian idea providing sound footing for this weekend is something i can't quite... live with.
now, i don't mean that the way it sounds. i think having pride is great. it's fantastic that people can be who they are, truly are. it's wonderful to celebrate people being at ease with the persons they have become, to celebrate living life with a sense of pride. that's all great. my thing is, i don't think i live with pride.
ok, so yeah, i'm a card-carrying member of the hrc. yes, i was a bit of an activist in college, though i never joined any student organization to do so. sure, my friends know i'm not of the penis:vagina persuasion. and, yep, i have a someone, special or otherwise, who i'm not sure i can call a boyfriend yet.
but i don't think all this adds up to "being proud" mostly because i sometimes doubt that i am proud at all.
i never came out. my pseudo-coming out, was anything but that. it wasn't something i did. rather, it was a series of "getting caught"s. i never had a party. a teary-eyed, hand-holding revelation to a close friend. a poignant, well-spoken letter to the fam. nothing. it never happened. coming out was not an event for me but a string of happenings and occurrences and run-ins, like a slowly leaking tire... a quiet hiss that everyone could hear, but denied until it was impossible not to pull over and investigate. one by one, day by day, they learned the truth.
however, with a few minor exceptions, i've never denied the truth... or at least what i thought was the truth at any given moment. i've always allowed people to think what they will, a habit indoctrinated during my childhood by my ever-accomodating mother. it was not my place to enforce an opinion on others. they were entitled to theirs, and i mine. furthermore, being liberal catholics, the truth was like surrealist art. it is whatever we tell ourselves it is. i was a chameleon; the truth my habitat.
regardless, now, i'm out... well, outed. sorta. my family still doesn't know. i'm not sure why i haven't told them. probably for the same reasons i've never told anyone... whatever those might be. i don't think my family would take it badly. i don't think they'd really react at all. i'm pretty sure they already know. yet i won't tell them. can't bring myself to tell them. it's almost more that i don't want to tell myself the truth than it is that i don't want to tell them the truth. i don't judge other people for being gay, so why would i judge myself? why would i be my own loophole?
when i daydream about what i want in life, i'm not there. i see a happy family -- 2 sons. 1 daughter. a saavy, bring-home-the-bacon father. and a smart, funny, the-kind-that-all-the-kids-wish-was-theirs mother. i see a perfect wedding with a perfect dress in a perfect church. i see the perfect two-story dutch colonial on a shaded street. there's a dog. 2 goldfish in a bowl, and fresh flowers everyday. god-fucking-damn, i am so socialized and so american, and i hate it, but still i don't fit in. i don't work into my own equation for the future. i have dreams for my future. things i think i specifically will achieve, but they don't match up with what i "want" to leave behind.
maybe the problem is that i want to be that mom. in the things i see when i make them be about me, i am that woman. i am that mother all the kids want to be theirs. so cool, so funny, so pretty. am i that gay guy? the one that wants to be a woman? am i who anne coulter writes about? am i a vagi-centric fag? a little bit. i often ponder life as a woman. what it'd be like. how much easier my life would be. how much harder it'd be. a little part of me has always wished i was born a girl.
at the same time, though, i like being a guy. peeing while standing is like the greatest thing in the world. testicles, while occasionally an annoyance, are, on the whole, a good time. burping and not shaving are great things to have be "okay". but overall, i'm not the man i want to be... a little too girly, a little too slight, a little too frilly, a little too gay.
i'm broken. i'm torn. how can i be proud of who i am when my whole life i've wanted to be someone else? as much as i hate it, i want my life to be black and white, no matter how gray or beige or fuschia everyone else's is.
and while i know this is an impossibility, until i'm ready to let the truth be my truth, i'll be standing on the sidelines watching everyone else be... them.
this is just my little way of saying that even though i'm not there now, i'm getting there... i'm getting proud.
blah, that shit doesn't even flow. like i said, i'm up in my woo... words don't work so good in the woo.
for. real.
with. the. hat. i think i peed a little.
this is my whole life.
a flamingo under glass.thanks for the photo, drew... oh, yeah, and for letting me blatantly steal it. smooches.
i'm learning that the french have no idea what they sound like in english.on monday, i began my intensive study of the french language. from now until the beginning of september, for 2 hours three times a week, i get to leave work to study diction, pronunciation, and conversation under the tutelage of the finest professeurs that alliance française has to offer. having never studied french and possessing a minimal knowledge of the language at best, i'm actually quite impressed with the progress i made in but one class. though, it did take me about 5 minutes to figure out that the teacher wasn't calling a classmate a "fatty gay" but rather "tired" or "fatigué" (fat-ee-gay). why does she keep calling him that? how horrible. sure, he's a little on the pudgy side, but my gaydar isn't getting so much as a blip... kinda judgmental on her part. regardless, i am definitely the star student in my class of five. professeur "bomb", as i like to call her, has already narrowed her favorites down to two, myself and janet, the middle-aged woman who plans to rent a car and drive through all of france come august. i suspect janet is recently divorced. my favorite student, however, is not janet... or even myself. rather, it is jeremie -- pronounced with a soft j like french people say, not the hard j like in janet's name. jeremie is a bartender. jeremie speaks fluent american sign language. jeremie is not-so-good at the french. professeur bomb calls him a poet. i call him special. oh, and he's pretty, too.in 6 months, i'll be fluent. watch out, paris.... and paris & paris.in sadder news, buckets left this very morning for a monthlong trek throughout southeast asia. i'll miss his sorry ass... terribly. we haven't dated for very long -- like 3 weeks -- we don't even refer to each other as "my boyfriend", but absence apparently does make the heart grow fonder... or maybe weaker.eh, at least he promised to bring me back a thai whore and to get his picture taken with a sign in the redlight district that says something like "pussy play pingpong".let's hope today i don't get approached by any crazy, extremely large men on the train who need someone to talk to so they can focus on not having a serious and loud anxiety attack that is the result of their extreme phobia of public places and mass transit. the crazies love me... but not quite as much as wally."pussy change oil!"
dearest, darlingest blogspottykinpoo,stop fucking deleting my posts, you stupid bitch! stop cockteasing me by putting them up for like a halfhour then letting them mysteriously vanish into the bermuda triangle of cyberspace. my posts are not pulling an amelia earhart; it's you. you're stealing them away for yourself, you troll. give them back, hooker! give them back. seriously, you're pissing me off.xoxo and much love,brettley sue
going mobile...
--
mobile email from a cingular wireless customer http://www.cingular.com
i had seen this many moons ago, but much thanks to anna for reminding me why i love the internet.too good.
per sven's demands...my 6 favorite songs at this very moment in time and space:"flying high" - jem"lover, you should have come over" - jamie cullum"one word" - kelly osbourne"come fly with me" - michael buble (yes, the song from the starbucks commercial)"maybe" - emma bunton"must be dreaming" - frou frouand because svenderella had a seventh..."half as far" - sarge...and for good measure, i'll share byron's list.
now, i'm supposed to tag a few more peeps to do this, but seeing as i know so few, i'll just let whoever wants to participate do so.
in order to tell this story, i have to admit a tidbit of embarrassing personal information.i tan.it's true. i do. not that you'd be able to tell from my pallor, but i pay money to lie semi-nude in a plastic bed while cancer is flung at me for 20 minutes. and i do this about 3 times a week. yep. it's hot, and i love it.now that we're past that, on to the story.so like 2 days ago, i decided it was a good day to stop on my way home and darken up, so i hopped off the red line at belmont and hurried up the stairs to my cancer den of choice. as always, there was a line... yes, a line to be uv'ed. there was some new girl signing up, and the whole process takes a bit of time what with the signing off on killing yourself at the responsibility of no one but yourself. as i stood there, cursing this girl for deciding to start tanning when i just needed to hop in a bed for 20 minutes, i wondered if the people behind me were thinking the same thing the day i joined the cult. as i pondered this, another guy entered the salon, reading a book as he slowly ascended the stairs. i was fascinated, of course, because i never saw other guys tanning. i watched as he entered and took his place at the end of the line. our wait continued, and he got antsy at the end of the line. he walked to and fro a bit, then decided to lean up against the wall.it is here that i noted in my head that he wasn't leaning up against a wall, reading a book, at all. in fact, he was leaning up against the door to a room with a premiere tanning experience in it. he was leaning up against the door to the "silver bullet". and then it happened... literally as i was about to open my mouth to tell him he was leaning on a door, the door gave way.he fell inside the room.he fell inside the room on the naked girl who had just finished tanning.he fell inside the room on the naked girl who had just finished tanning and was wiping her sweat off the bed.mortified for him, i swallowed my laughter and looked forward, listening to him profusely apologize as he awkwardly tried to close the set of double doors to the room.i decided it only would have been funnier if she had fallen out of the room onto him.
as mariah likes to call them, i have an impending "anniversary".on july 1, one more year has ticked by.i'm in the process of coordinating my celebratory festivities. making a guest list, compiling email addresses, building a menu, locating the necessary outdoor furniture and supplies, creating and sending an evite. feeling very euro planning my own birthday party, i realize i've never done this before. not plan a party or even plan a party for myself... but rather, i've never had a birthday party. don't worry, i'm not a recovering jehovah's witness; i'm allowed to dance and receive gifts in honor of my birth. rather, i'm a summertime baby.i was born on a thursday. some people will tell you that this means something. and it probably does. i'm sure to my mother it meant that she would no longer have a small person inside her for the fireworks and barbecues of the coming weekend (and many more weekends for the next three years, until the y.b. would come along one very hot and sultry august). for my dad, it meant he didn't have to miss his softball tournament to watch some kid crawl out of a uterus. i'm certain it meant something to the nurses and doctors who were changing shifts just as i was arriving. and for me, well, considering that thursday marked the first day i "went out" into the world, it just might factor into thursdays being my favorite night to hit the town.i was the only baby born that thursday in that hospital and the only boy born all week. my mother had a double occupancy room to herself. the hospital was quiet, and the air was heavy with summer warmth. next door, a woman had been in labor for almost 24 hours, but wouldn't give birth to kimberly until the wee small hours of the following evening. somewhere down the hall, another woman was waiting for her twin daughters to leave her belly. on july 6, emily would emerge followed very closely by sarah. this same pattern would hold true for most of their lives. sucking on ice chips, my mother awaited the arrival of contractions and the exhausting labor the woman next door made seem less-than-desirable. around noon, my mother finally went into labor some 7 hours after her water broke. by 4:30, i was born.it's hard growing up with a birthday that competes with a national holiday. it's even harder when those birthdays fall during the long, lazy months of the illinois summer. it's hard to convince people that running around my backyard with sparklers is more worth their while than full-on fireworks displays over the lake. harder yet was getting people to stay in town to come over and eat a cake decorated with cartoon characters rather than fly off to visit family in exotic locations across the country. as a child, i would shake my fist in the air and curse the united states of america for being born on a day so closely situated to my own birthday. i used to plan on moving to mexico because its birthday was in may, and was slightly thankful that i didn't live in canada, a country actually born on my birthday. fucking canada. even moreso, i hated having a summer birthday. i never got to bring cupcakes to school. every year, the teacher would promise that some week when we had no birthdays kids with summer birthdays would bring in treats to celebrate theirs... yet week after birthdayless week went by and the summer birthdays were never celebrated. i was bitter everytime a birthday invitation came in the mail or was handed out at school... though few they were. i hated the other kids for getting to have parties with magicians and clowns and pinatas and pony rides. the only year i attempted to have a birthday party, only my cousins showed up, sending me teary-eyed into the arms of my mother. i didn't even eat my birthday cake. after that, i stopped trying to celebrate my birthday.the birthday party is a new experience for me. sure, in college, we'd go out for my birthday... it even became a pseudo-holiday involving bar crawls and t-shirts within the inner circle of my coworkers, but i still didn't have birthday parties. it's just not something i do -- correction: did -- and even now as i plan a party to recognize my twenty-third year, i find myself a little uneasy. the old nerves and anxieties are back. what if no one comes? everyone will be gone for the fourth. not even your cousins will show up to this one. so i got smart.i moved my birthday. well, the celebration part anyway. now, i'll be competing with the queers instead of the u.s. of a. i may have stood a better chance with america. regardless, while it won't have pony rides and sure as fuck won't have a clown, it's going to be wonderful... and people will come. and i won't cry into my mother's hug. and they'll have a blast playing with sparklers in my backyard.p.s. if you want to come to the party, drop me a note with your email address, and i'll send you the evite.
my day has been ruined.what was already a long and tiring day at the office has suddenly become excrutiatingly worse.at lunch, i bought a mouth-watering roll of strawberry mentos.just now, i went to start eating them.they're cinnamon.nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
in honor of friday and me having friends coming into town, a light-hearted questionnaire posting...now, all you frioggers of mine can learn just a bit more about me.enjoy!THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:1. brett2. b. ryan3. b.r.THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:1. bretty72. myredneckpast3. hedrinksalotTHREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:1. my teeth, but not particularly my smile2. my bellybutton3. my freckles across my shouldersTHREE PHYSICAL THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:1. my ass or lack thereof2. my skinny arms 3. my extremely thin legsTHREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:1. french2. dutch3. scottish (clearly not the majority of my heritage, but they're still in there underneath all the irish, german, and english dna)THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:1. cancer2. clowns3. moments of important revelationTHREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:1. rusk "being shocked" hair paste2. my wristwatch3. at least 4 glasses of waterTHREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:1. my ever-present glasses2. contraband flip-flops (they're forboden at work)3. a judgmental smirk (some jack ass is singing in the hallway... all bluesy and "oooo aaaaoooo uhoooo oooo")THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:1. elliott smith2. imogen heap/frou frou3. jamie cullumTHREE OF YOUR (current) FAVORITE SONGS:1. "maybe" emma bunton2. "even so" rachael yamagata3. "one word" kelly osbourneTHREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:1. butterflies... forever butterflies2. that frighteningly almost telepathic connection where you can just know what the other is thinking without really having to try3. financial security (i'm shallow... so sue me)TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE (in no particular order):1. i failed a class in college 2. i'm not wearing any underwear 3. my balls itchTHREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE PREFERRED SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU1. a nice chest and shoulders2. green eyes3. having a little weight to you (i'm skinny enough for the both of us)THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:1. drinking2. shopping3. readingTHREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:1. pee2. go to a beach3. register for my imaginary weddingTHREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING/YOU'VE CONSIDERED:1. celebutante2. fashion designer/editor3. publicistTHREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:1. japan2. france3. the isles of the mediterraneanTHREE KID'S NAMES YOU LIKE (3 for girls and 3 for boys):1. madeleine 2. zhiyi (it's like gigi only asian)3. etain (it means shining)1. dächen2. jaime (as in high-may)3. ruairi (roo-eerie... it's irish and would make my gramps proud)(yes, i'm full aware that my children will be fucked up from the get-go)THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:1. be famous2. get married3. travel all over and raise multi-lingual childrenTHREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:1. i like to watch sports... playing them is another story2. i love beer... especially with porn3. i never cry... and when i do, it usually involves a dead dog or lots of booze
THREE WAYS THAT YOU ARE STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:1. i fantasize about shoes and purses 2. teenage girl movies are a staple of my "needed" media 3. i heart cock
i would have been one foxy mama.a recent post by the fabulous mr. b got me to thinking. he wondered how his life would be different if he were a straight man rather than one of the swishy persuasion, and i couldn't help but wonder how my life would be different if i were the sex of the vaginal assortment.yep, i began to think about life with fallopian tubes.my parents had told me once before that had i been born with one more hole my name would be "samantha nicole", though my dad was really pushing for "kendra nicole". hello, white trash. thank the lord and tom ford for my mother's east coast sensibilities. beyond the name, though, i have no real sign post for what direction my life would have taken with a girl navigating. for starters, i have no sisters. i don't know what a girl sprung from my parents' loins would look like, act like, be like. sure, sure.... but, brett, you're gay. that's pretty damn close to being a girl already. what's there to really wonder about? um... only a million and one things.i'd be trading g.i. joes for the barbies i secretly played with anyway and sleepovers in backyard puptents for tea parties with dolls and imaginary crumpets.i'd be giving up the competitiveness of junior high sports like track and basketball for choir auditions and cheerleading practice (as if there's any doubt i would have been a cheerleader).i'd be handing in morning wood for a period.i'd trade in sneakers for stilettos... not to mention the multitude of other wardrobe upgrades that come with a vag.it'd be totally sweet. all the things that i get judged on and hated for would suddenly melt away into normalcy. being a girl would let me love clothes. i could wear heels all the time. i'd rock out in skirts. and oh the purses. the purses. they'd devour my life. womanhood would let me love straight men. i could flirt with them. touch them. tell them to call me. and they'd like it. as a girl, i wouldn't have to keep waiting for my voice to drop. my dulcet, alto tones would become sexy or flirtatious. i'd be able to make millions as a phone sex operator. in girlhood, my desire to design and decorate and craft and style would be perfectly acceptable and socially condoned. making a home would not only be my pleasure but my responsibility. donna reed wouldn't have jack shit on this bitch. being a woman would explain away my career aspirations to become a trophy wife. i'd make one rockin' kept woman. you pay the bills, and i'll look fucking fantastic while sucking your dick.more than anything, though, i wonder about the little things. what would i look like? would i still be tall and leggy? would i have big jays? would i go blond? of course i'd go blond... would my fashion sense still own? with my new options, how could it not... would i still be able to walk magnificently in heels? surely, i jest... what kind of boys would i date? would i have dated more in high school and college? would i have gone to college or would i have gotten pregnant in high school with the baby of the quarterback? no, certainly, i would have been on birth control in high school... would i like having a vagina? would it smell funny? no way, high fives on the clean punani... would i have been a plastic (or a mean girl for those not in the know)? hello, gretchen wieners all the way... would i have been smart or did that come with being awkward during puberty? would i have been awkward during puberty? would my nose still be big? and what about my jays? would i have the same friends? and it's right there that i stop because i wouldn't. if i had been a girl, i wouldn't know any of the people i know right now. i wouldn't be living the life i live today, and considering how much of that wouldn't really bother me, the one thing that does is losing my friends to a cooter and some hot shoes.it's fun to daydream... but no thanks, i'll keep my pussy as a pet.
do you like me? do you really like me?i'm not sure what to call you. i'll say "oh, i have this friend..." or "i know this guy who...", but somehow neither seems right. you're not an acquaintance, as we've never really met... and in those odd instances where we have, the meetings were of little to no substance. however, you're not a stranger either. i know more about you, or at least feel like i know more about you, than i do many people i see and interact with on a daily basis. you are different. special. you are someone whose blog i read.there are several of you. some of you i have met in person, though most of you are but electronic typeface on a glowing monitor. those i have met, i've met but once. in passing or by accident, either way, the meetings are brief, inconsequential, lacking the richness and camaraderie of our repartee via the sundry of comments and private emails. with some of you, i am friendsters, mutually expanding our networks and increasing our cool factor with the addition of one more... friend. some of you i read desperately, floundering like a fish out of water, frantically gasping for something to run over my gills, unable to click the refresh button quickly enough. others i check in on when the mood strikes me, devouring every post since the last time i was in your mood. all of you i feel i know in some respect. there's a tie... something that stretches from your words to my brain or my heart or my... something. something in me. some part of me holds onto you guys.i talk about you. you come up in conversation. parts of your lives intersect with mine so flawlessly... it's hardly coincidental. you're relevant. my anecdotes and chit-chat are sprinkled with bits of you... how you love this tv show, how you just went on a first date, how you are always seeing and hearing these crazy things, how you loathe your parents, how you lie about your age, how you just got a new job, how you make me laugh, how you make me hurt, how you make me feel... i talk about you... like we were friends.but are we? would i like you if we spent time together that wasn't solitary? would you like me before i'm edited, thought out, reworked, reworded? is our friendship predicated on our fractured self-representations? do i like you or do i like the you you're willing to let me read about?are we friends? do i need to feel stupid when i say "oh, i have this friend..." or "i know this guy who..." or do i really have this friend or know this guy?let's be friends... i hope.
i had bigger plans for myself.today, while walking to lunch, i passed the currency exchange on lasalle and chicago. on their flashing jumbotron-esque screen mounted on the building's roof, a message twinkled in wondrous flourescence."skilled, motivated individuals, fax us your resume."i almost kicked my own ass when i realized i was attempting to memorize the number. "where's the harm in trading one shit job for another?" i thought. you see, i need a new job.i have a dead-end job. yeah, yeah. sure, i'm only 22 (though, in less than a month, that number changes). sure, it's my first real job. sure, i've only been here for 2 months. sure, sure, sure. unsure.the problem is... well... i had ideas for myself, big ideas. i want so much more than this job can afford me, and however uncharacteristic this is, i'm not willing to settle. i will settle on an apartment, clothing, restaurants, vacation destinations, hell, even friends... but i won't settle on where i want myself to be, i mean really be.it took my first two years at university to finally discover something i was truly passionate about studying, and now, i'm not willing to act like that discovery never took place. i was an english major, a history major, an economics major, a classics major, an art major, an art history major, an art education major, a classics major again, a sociology major, an astornomy major, a physics major, an astro-physics major, a classics major one more time, and finally, a communications & gender studies major. it was a long, long road, and i worked really hard to get to the end of it... and i did. i'm not about to forget that.yet that's exactly what this job is making me do. while on a daily basis i may apply knowledge that i gained or skills that i honed throughout my 4 years at a major, public university, i do not employ anything that had to do with what i actually studied. now, i don't expect to find a job that requires an in-depth knowledge of laura mulvey's thoughts on the male gaze and their relevance to those of freud and foucault on sexuality, nor one that calls for firsthand experience researching the effects of widespread change on middle management in a multi-tiered organization with multiple branch offices. that'd just be silly.but currently, i'm in the wrong position, the wrong department, the wrong field, the wrong industry. i'm the coordinator of a bookstore. my larger department is student accounts. i work at a culinary school. the school is owned by a corporation. yes, i'm in education for profit and do nothing that deals with communications or gender.i want to use my degree. i want to be in marketing. i want to be a writer. i want to work for an advertising company. i want to design things. i want to be a publicist. i want a tv show. i want to be an editor. i want to travel for work. i want to talk intelligently with others in my field. i want to work at a magazine. i want to be known in my industry, if even slightly. i want to be published. i want to publish. i want to circle things with a red wax pencil and say "no" to them. i want a job i like.i do not like my job.find me on monster.com.where's my fucking commercial?
