For the past hour and a half, I’ve searched for jobs. I quickly learned that my four years as an undergraduate was really just to prolong the job-finding process while giving me meager skills. I thought I wanted to write, but 3.5 years of writing, and dreading every minute of it, makes me think I want to do design of some sort. Do I have knowledge of design software? Yes. Do I have any design training? Minimal. Mostly self-taught. Do I have an impressive portfolio? I think I deleted the one class assignment I really liked. Darn.

But I’m too proud to be a secretary, waitress or retail sales person. Nothing against those jobs, but I feel like my four-year absence brings along with it grandiose expectations. Rightfully so, I didn’t go to a private university to get a mediocre job. But apparently even those are out of my grasp.

“Matt, I’m doomed.”

“No you’re not. (Links to Craigslist employment post.)”

Clicks on link: Athletic women with muscular bodies needed for body modeling photo and video work by female photographer and filmmaker. Body hair is very much preferred.

There. That’s enough to get it out of my system.

Categorize as “I’ll Keep Your Secret Sass.” See also: Luke 12:3

The only thing that attracted my eye to this poem was a previous reader’s notes. There were arrows and underlines and words. My first thought: finally, some worthwhile notes from someone who understands poetry. I was saved, or so I thought. There were question marks a plenty and comments: describes night-gowns, do not relate w/ eachother, poem doesn’t seem to all connect together.

Crap. See, this is why I don’t like poetry. I tried to be artsy and obscure, but who was I kidding. And, that’s why I yell back in the face of this published crazy: WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?

Disillusionment of Ten O’Clock

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
WIth socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red winter.

And this crap is going to keep me from graduating? This school is trying to tell me that understanding this is the best use of my time and is imperative to being a well-adjusted and educated member of society?!

Dramatic and rational. Quite a funny relationship. Rational attacks dramatic, because it is always right. Yet, dramatic is creative and spontaneous; it really just wants to be friends.

I always tell people I’m a type A personality. Every move I make must have several reasons to back it up, emotion not being one of them. What I don’t tell people is that I always think of the dramatic first. Those thoughts are deemed ridiculous and I come to my senses. Whoopee … same old Emily.

Well tis the season, I said to myself, pushing reason to the side. There was a point to be made! I would calmly get my keys, gather my things, and put that turbo to good use.

Except for there was a car blocking me and reason rushed to my side. Stay? I want to. Stay? Maybe. Stay? I’m leaving.

As the distance grew, rationality began to nibble away at me. But I would not let it win. Not this time. Rational is freeway. Dramatic is Lake Chabot Road after the first rain. One side mountain, the other side cliff. The windy road is so dark, that your rearview mirror is completely black. Drama had taken the lead.

God must have known I would do something that stupid. There was a car in front of me that just had to go the speed limit and use their breaks around the curves. Didn’t they know it could be done without? Didn’t they know I was on a mission?

But, reason had stopped my dramatic attempt.

I got home and turned off the engine. The light shot the comforting darkness and I was transported to a police-like interrogation. All the thoughts and worries weighing on me grew intensely, but then faded with the light. Drama still breathed, despite the apparent loss. I’d sleep in the car, stand out in the rain or go for a walk. Anything except facing reality.

I’ve been away for 10 days and now it’s time to get everything back together. I’ve neglected school work, work and, to be honest, personal hygeine. Hey, it was either make my flight or take a shower. I wish I could have chosen the shower.

The thing I hate most about catching up is checking my email. Long gone are the days when email is another way for people to say they love me or send something funny. Now it’s a leash. Instead of love on the other end, it’s demanding people. They’re quite rabid, really. I just want to yell to them I’M JUST ONE PERSON TRYING TO LIVE ONE DAY AT A TIME! LEAVE ME ALONE!

I just got an email containing an attachment — an 800-word paragraph excuse for an article. It has characters named Ny and Eve.

Goodnight laptop, goodnight books.
Goodnight TV, goodnight cobwebby nooks.
Goodnight laundry, goodnight prayer.
Goodnight messy rooms everywhere.

I used to think that having it all together was being on top of my to-do list. Boy was I wrong. Now I know it’s all about everything not on my to-do list. Painting my toenails, checking MySpace and watching The Best of Will Ferrell repeatedly.

“At this point in the soak, my lovah and I usually crave spiced meats.”

Salons are worse than school playgrounds. Every time I go, I am ridiculed and they steal a month’s worth of lunch money. This time was no different.

Gity sat me down in the swirly chair and I took down my slashy hair. She gasped and everyone turned to look at my hair. “You used bleach,” she reprimanded while parading my hair to the onlookers. No, I actually paid in the three-digit range to have Stephen highlight it last December. He called it Irish Creme. “You shouldn’t use bleach.” Well it sure as heck wasn’t Clorox. It was like the Louis Vuitton of bleaches.

I should have escaped when she put the dye sample to my head and asked me what I thought. Instead of buying a box dye, I hired a dye slave to command at will. Then she went over to a coworker and chatted, holding the sample. Future Salon Workers of America and Beyond: DON’T DYE SOMEONE’S HAIR IF YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO IT. Again, I should have high-tailed it out of there. But she got the brush and began to glob away.

“Your ends are really damaged,” she said. Onlookers perked up again. “You should get it cut.” I told her not to bother. “I can give you a trim.” Thanks anyway, but I like my hair long. “No, it’s okay, I can fix it for you.” I glanced at Gity’s prices. $45 for color and $20 for a cut. There was no price on “fixing,” so I hoped it would be free — charity for the freak show on parade before. I might as well be a bearded lady.

As the dye seeped into my strands, a mother was jibber-jabbering about her fantastic daughter. It was Princess Fantastic’s homecoming. She didn’t want to go, but she’s on ASB. So they rushed to the mall to buy a ($200) dress, shoes and purse. She went to get her nails painted ($28 for non acrylics) and now she was getting her hair SHAMPOOED AND BLOWDRIED at the salon, while being fanned and fed exotic grapes. Apparently 15-year-old girls can’t paint their nails and wash their hair anymore.

So back in my seat, Gity pulls out Hairstyle magazine. “Which one do you want?” I just want a trim. Oh gosh, I’ve been brainwashed. I don’t want my hair cut! “I was thinking three inches off, with long layers.” I tell her just a trim. “Okay, I’ll just trim it.” And with that, she cuts off three inches of hair. I’m screaming obscenities in my head at this point, all while maintaining a smile. Then she cuts the layers and announces she’s done. Yet she kept on cutting! For the love of all that is holy — STOP WOMAN!

All this stress had made me forget about the color. I do a double-take. It must be the lighting. Yes, that’s it. “Oh, your hair is a perfect match!” Onlookers ooh and aah. Wait, was she looking at the same hair that I was, because MY HAIR ISN’T BLACK! “Oh wow, it matches your natural color! And look at the volume you’re getting! I wish I had my camera for before-and-after shots!”

I wanted to cry. I went to the salon to specifically avoid this. Now I’m paying $65 + tip for a professionally ruined hair. Sure, everyone says it looks good, but it’s not me. I don’t feel comfortable with it. I want my brown with golden and red sparkle hair back!

Gity said it would fade. I’ve washed my hair nine times in the past two days. No difference. I cancelled my senior picture appointment and vowed never to set foot in a salon as long as I live. Amen.

Last December I went to an expensive salon and had my hair highlighted and cut. It looked fantastic. From about June until now, it looks anything but fantastic.

Enter conundrum (dun dun dun!): I have to take senior pictures on Monday. My hair is majorly slashy (half blonde, half brown). I desperately want to buy a box of dye when I go grocery shopping today. But I know better than this. Last time I bought a box and my hair turned orange. I bought another box and my hair turned black. I then had to buy an emergency dye at a moderately priced salon. (But, I did get bangs in the process, and for that I am glad.)

So, to buy a box or not to buy a box? To beg the salon people to take in this lost cause or not to beg the salon people to take in this lost cause that’s getting loster by the second? Why I do this to myself? Those, my friends, are the questions.

Hmmm. Calling mom to see what she has to say. She’s the one that wants them, anyway.

I hope this brevity doesn’t indicate you don’t care about the project! You should be able to RING THE BELL on this, Emily!

Before I go further, I’d like to note that the exclamation was not average. It definitely was a triangular block-letter type. You know, the kind you used in seventh grade to say, “I love [insert boy(s) name(s)]. Me and him/them 4ever!! He/They is/R so kewl!”

Moving on. This was one of many scribbles I received on a returned assignment. My job was to write a memo about how a paper was going. Keyword: memo. The syllabus did call for a couple pages, maybe even three. However, I have never seen a memo that was more than three paragraphs long. (You can imagine my surprise when brevity was not part of the journalist’s creed! I know many who would think — and have taught — otherwise.)

Earth to Meekus*! If you want a paper, ask for a paper. Earth to Brint! It was your duty as a student to provide work that adheres to the syllabus.

Since when am I required to care? That’s not on the syllabus … because I most definitely gave it a thorough glance, er, read. Let’s give her another look-see here. Texts and Materials … calendar … yatta, yatta … . Aha! Course components: Quizzes … papers … more papers … yet another paper. No points for caring!

I got 25 out of 30 on the memo. And in a lot less time than my other classmates did, I guarantee.

For a class that I need for insurance purposes only and with a stressful life outside of school, I care as much as I can afford. I am truly sorry. I will listen and I will go to class. I will do the assignments and most likely take them to heart — if not now, then later. I turned in the assignment on time. I’m sorry I wanted to be honest and not BS you for 2.5 pages.

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* Meekus trivia: Voted the sexist man in Sweden three times, according to imdb.