Friday, April 18

Bad Friends, Bad Gigs

Another week, another dose of fun stuff from Teen Vogue!




Now, unless you're an angsty 17-year-old who lives in a bedroom down the hall from his or her birth creators, you probably can't use this article to much of your advantage. Unless, of course, you're dating someone who hates your friends. Or you hate your boyfriend's friends. Or your girlfriend's friends are so terrible that you've faked the stomach flu so you don't have to go to a dive bar with them. Sound at all familiar? Wish you were good enough at lying to use stomach flu as a fake excuse? Congrats! This article can totally apply to you, too. Because whenever someone says "you'll grow to like them!", it's never followed by anything other than never growing to like them.

Help is here, pal. Help is right here.




I'm not gonna lie, guys. I'm not good at a lot of things. In case that's not evident from everything I've ever written on here, I'll reinforce it: sticky situations with characters who hold more authority than you turn my stomach into garlic knots. I'm currently sitting at a table in a "private members club" without a member, and I've got a Yelp-rated pizza business opening up shop in my tummy right now.

If you're at all nervous about quitting a job, good! You should be, because if you're not, you're either a zombie-human or just horrifically unafraid of conflict. As someone who has had a lot of jobs (I can't pick an industry, so sue me*), I've also had to leave a lot of those jobs for other jobs I'd eventually leave. So, my knowledge of having the world's trickiest conversation is actually more vast than I'd like to admit — and that's where you benefit. Bookmark this for a dark day, the happiest day of your life, or just a day when you've decide you've had enough,and you'll handle The Talk like a seasoned pro. No need to burn a bridge while you've just finished crossing it, right? Take it from me, and make sure you breeze out of there in the best way possible.

(*Except legal, I won't work in legal)




Thursday, April 17

This Blog Post Cost Over $600



As anyone who follows anything I post online, my quest towards becoming an adult lady is nothing new. Saying womanhood doesn’t come naturally to me is a gross understatement. Like, claiming airline seats are designed for ergonomic comfort, or saying Lindsay Lohan’s skin doesn’t look like it was grafted from a cadaver.

I've always felt out of place anywhere where adults have put effort into their appearances before 6pm, but now that I have a gemstone on my left finger and an adult future to consider, I can't really let my leggings-wearing lifestyle and I-slept-in-this-ain't-that-neat? demeanor hold for much longer.

The pressure to grow the fuck up already has been ringing in my ears for a while now. When people are calling you bride while you’re simultaneously secret-spending your paycheck on a custom pom-pon banner to hang above your desk (omg, more on that later), you kind of want things to equal out. You want to tip the balance more towards the “Rag-and-Bone-wearing-brown-haired-lady” end of the spectrum instead of the “How was prom?” "Oh, I’m not in high school” one. At a minimum, I feel the urge to at least polish my turd; to at least get to a point where I look like an adult on the outside, in order to still enjoy Adventure Time iPhone cases and pretend my desk plant has a secret personality.

With my hair looking more Jewish than ever — frizzy, curly and straw-like in ways comparable to my younger, overnight camp-attending self frying her wet hair to look straightish in time for Shabbat — I had to do something. Anything! I needed to buck up and become the adult I’m told I am and have not yet seen surface So, I went to a fancy salon and made something out of myself.

I scheduled an appointment, asked for “I don’t know, ombre’s kinda played out so something similar”, drank a bunch of lemon waters, tried to make the staff laugh and two hours later, walked towards the receptionist with the farmer’s market, organic, freshly picked-version of bouncy lady hair.




And then I was pronounced dead on the scene after having a heart attack.

Now, this is completely my fault. I never asked prices. I don’t even know how much this stuff usually costs! This salon is, like, a celebrity haven — but due to my naiveté, I had no idea it would be $522. And that didn’t even include tip, which was practically another hundo. And, while you’re wondering how irresponsible I can possibly be, or how poor with money I’ve become, it’s not that. I straight up made a newbie mistake. My inexperience didn’t clue me in to any of the warning signs that this might set me back a lifetime of paychecks.

Perhaps I should have noticed everyone was staring at me, and not because I showed up real chill-like, in a neon hat and the shirt I slept in. (I wasn’t joking up top.) Maybe I should have taken into account that there was a girl whose entire job was to man the coat check. And that my colorist had a full-time assistant. And that the salon was packed — packed! — during the day with fancy ladies that had eight-shades-of-blonde hair like Robin Wright Penn and Celine bags plopped beside them.

I did get what I asked for. Does it look good? Yes. Is the girl who colored my hair incredibly skilled? Yes. But does it look like the entire Rapunzel fairy tale was created in honor of my newly luscious mane? Did I, as I keep asking myself, get $500 worth of a look?

Well….



A-NO. To me, to spend all of my money — all of it! — on my physical appearance, I better look like someone who’s a natural blonde and spends her afternoons surfing. I mean, shouldn’t they just transplant Lily Collins’ entire face onto mine for this much money? Shouldn’t I get a lifetime supply of manicures and a basket of croissants for the week? Or, like, a free puppy and six free issues of Kinfolk and maybe a couple of human organs thrown in there, too?

I fucked up, bad. I failed at my small attempt to become an adult lady. I had no cues to draw on, no social practices to pull from, and I came out the other end disturbingly horrible at this. If I needed a sign from the universe that I should have quit the adulthood quest while I’m ahead, I got one. A very expensive one. One so costly that American Express literally flagged my account for fraud from a large purchase.

So, here I am, with barely sun-kissed hair, more confused than ever as to how women actually do this adulthood racket. But,I don't know, maybe that’s just it. Maybe my journey towards adulthood won't measured in glimmery hair and designer jeans and small leather zip pouches. Maybe it will be measured
in knowing all the social norms, knowing what’s expected of me and turning my nose up at it.

But, I’ll have more time to ponder that at another time. Now…now, I need to figure out a way to churn out a big freelance story. Immediately.



Tuesday, April 15

How To Accomplish All Of Your Freelance Projects On Time



1. Email back and forth with whoever's coordinating the bulk of the work, so that you have all the information in front of you.

2. Place everything in a well-organized GoogleDoc, so that it's all handy, and you know, right there for you.

3. Refuse to take the ten seconds it requires to file the document appropriately, forcing it to become the nineteenth "Untitled Document" in your Drive.

4. Have some more coffee, you'll need it!

5. Start working! Yes, it's gonna be just like finals crunchtime for college. You got this!

6. Write for ten to fifteen seconds.

7. Panic over your attentiveness and feel bad that you haven't yet had a book released/show created/bag of money drop onto your doorstep.

8. Decide life is a waste and go plop around the Internet.

9. Read a story about the new "Spanx For Your Face"

10. Go deep in research of former high school gentleman friends, see if anyone's faces have changed. They haven't.

11. See someone's '90s nostalgia post.

12. Click through to YouTube.

13. Watch another video on YouTube.

14. Watch another video on YouTube.

15. Watch another video on YouTube.

15. Follow your way down a trail of recommended videos until you land on this jackpot:





16. Realized that you totally won today.


Friday, April 11

Two Shows For The Price Of One!




I have about eighteen posts in draft form, but fuck that, those are officially on the backburner. These two videos are so good that you have to drop everything and watch them. Seriously. Baby in the arms, purse, sandwich, iced coffee — drop it all! That's what I did, at least, when my friend Alana sent them over and caused me to stand in the kitchen, leaning into the cabinet while snacking, watching Thomas Middleditch squeeze tear juice out of his face instead of doing the third load of dishes that were looming. (I make a lot of juice and don't trust sponges.)

Given that it's a Friday, and it's seemingly wonderful outside, and you're probably cooped up inside an air-conditioned building counting down the seconds until the weekend, why not give yourself a desk break? Yes, OK, I am just trying to get you guys to join in my procrastination of not starting anything until 10am because I was glaring at Ben Schwartz's familiar face, but still. These two will bring you more joy than a mid-afternoon trip to 16 Handles, so let's get down, shall we?

The one up top is a beautiful tale of a sad breakup, and the one below is a sad tale of a beautiful friendship. Do it to it. And have a good freakin' weekend, duh.




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