Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
And I’ll continue blogging forever just because…
This is a blog that never ends
Yes, it goes on and on, my friends
Some people started blogging not knowing what it was
And they'll continue blogging forever just because
This is a blog that never ends……
Yes, it goes on and on, my friends
Some people started blogging not knowing what it was
And they'll continue blogging forever just because
This is a blog that never ends……
Oy-yo-yoi,
I don’t know what to ramble about.
But I want to ramble about something.
So, I’m rambling.
About nothing.
But I want to ramble about something.
So, I’m rambling.
About nothing.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Letter to God.
Dear God,
If you’re anything like the dude in the Torah; you’re probably not my biggest fan. Plus, you’re really busy listening to the prayers of devout Jews who keep kosher and don’t do shit on Fridays (although, technically, I fit the latter criteria…and when I feel fat, I skip the BLT for lunch). Anyhow God, when you’re not overly busy burning bushes on top of Mt Sinai, please take a quick read through my letter. If not for me, then do it for the environment.
God, I don’t ask you for much, as opposed to my whiney friends who constantly bombard you with their silly requests for a soulmate. I don’t bug you with requests for a winning lottery ticket either; although I do think you should consider it; just imagine all the good that can do. I wouldn’t ever have to go to work and that would make a lot of people happy.
But enough of tangent deliberations. The reason I’m writing this letter is that I’ve been noticing certain patterns that have drawn my attention to a few shortcomings in your intelligent design. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job; you’ve been doing it for eons and you’re probably better at it then I would be. Although, I am a really quick learner and am looking for a part time gig. My resume is enclosed.
Anyhow, God, every couple of months I get an urge to restock all of my bras. So, for the past week I’ve been doing some undergarment shopping and noticed that everygoddamn store is out of brassieres in 34B. Which leads me to believe that either 1) you’ve made too many women with my boob dimensions, much to the displeasure of many men or 2) you’re not producing enough kids in third world countries to work in bra factories?
Maybe you’ve been taking some time off? I’m guessing that’s why men invented plastic surgery and halter tops. Sometimes, you have to take the bull by the horns, right? Or maybe the prayers of men have been drowned out by the exploding Chinese population. I feel you God, one Chinese is hard to understand…I can just imagine how tough it is to decipher the prayers of two billion.
God, I’ll be stopping by Victoria’s Secret after work. Please make me a 34C by end of today.
Best Regards,
-Ida.
If you’re anything like the dude in the Torah; you’re probably not my biggest fan. Plus, you’re really busy listening to the prayers of devout Jews who keep kosher and don’t do shit on Fridays (although, technically, I fit the latter criteria…and when I feel fat, I skip the BLT for lunch). Anyhow God, when you’re not overly busy burning bushes on top of Mt Sinai, please take a quick read through my letter. If not for me, then do it for the environment.
God, I don’t ask you for much, as opposed to my whiney friends who constantly bombard you with their silly requests for a soulmate. I don’t bug you with requests for a winning lottery ticket either; although I do think you should consider it; just imagine all the good that can do. I wouldn’t ever have to go to work and that would make a lot of people happy.
But enough of tangent deliberations. The reason I’m writing this letter is that I’ve been noticing certain patterns that have drawn my attention to a few shortcomings in your intelligent design. I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job; you’ve been doing it for eons and you’re probably better at it then I would be. Although, I am a really quick learner and am looking for a part time gig. My resume is enclosed.
Anyhow, God, every couple of months I get an urge to restock all of my bras. So, for the past week I’ve been doing some undergarment shopping and noticed that every
Maybe you’ve been taking some time off? I’m guessing that’s why men invented plastic surgery and halter tops. Sometimes, you have to take the bull by the horns, right? Or maybe the prayers of men have been drowned out by the exploding Chinese population. I feel you God, one Chinese is hard to understand…I can just imagine how tough it is to decipher the prayers of two billion.
God, I’ll be stopping by Victoria’s Secret after work. Please make me a 34C by end of today.
Best Regards,
-Ida.
Friday, April 17, 2009
I love silly boy messages.
“Hi Ida….uhm..uhm…ugh…I just called to say “Hello”. Hello!”
The kid was so off-script, I could sense mild apprehension.
I found it insanely cute-sy. Almost instantly, I felt a sense of comfort. I giggled and called back; “Hello…I’m just calling to say Hello.”
Maybe this “dating” stuff ain’t too shabby.
On a more cautionary note; if I like him, it means he’s crazy. And if he’s crazy, then I won’t like him. And if he’s not crazy, then he’ll think I’m crazy. And if he thinks I’m crazy, then he won’t like me.
Nevermind. This dating stuff is totally shabby.
“Hi Ida….uhm..uhm…ugh…I just called to say “Hello”. Hello!”
The kid was so off-script, I could sense mild apprehension.
I found it insanely cute-sy. Almost instantly, I felt a sense of comfort. I giggled and called back; “Hello…I’m just calling to say Hello.”
Maybe this “dating” stuff ain’t too shabby.
On a more cautionary note; if I like him, it means he’s crazy. And if he’s crazy, then I won’t like him. And if he’s not crazy, then he’ll think I’m crazy. And if he thinks I’m crazy, then he won’t like me.
Nevermind. This dating stuff is totally shabby.
Monday, March 23, 2009
If I were to get a tattoo...
I’ve been thinking (and that in itself is quite a rarity); I want a tat.
I want it to be something special.
Something that showcases my origin.
Something that can capture my individuality.
Something narcissistic .
And something simple.
I decided on… Знак качества.
I want it to be something special.
Something that showcases my origin.
Something that can capture my individuality.
Something narcissistic .
And something simple.
I decided on… Знак качества.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
God knows I want to break free...
I have been a corporate bitch for 1 year, 6 months and 27 days. I was hoping I’d dream up a plan by end of March and move on to “something or other.” It’s 13 days to month end, and no such plan has materialized; primarily because instead of dreaming and scheming, I’ve been snacking and slacking.
I’ve had quite a few mediocre plans, the majority of which involve 1) getting laid off or 2) quitting. I prefer the former. I’d like me some unemployment benefits. Besides, no one likes quitters, particularly not the ‘rents. As is apparent from the first sentence of my pseudo-rant, I’m still employed. So, I’m in a bit of a conundrum and have been forced to consider alternate ways of breaking free from the corporate shackles: alternative numero dos - quitting.
What would I do if I quit? I’d sell of all the useless shit I’ve accumulated, abandon my fancy-shmancy Hollywood crib, pack a few pairs of underwear and socks into my piece-of-shit Corolla and vagabond through the good ol’ States for a few weeks/months. Then, I’d cash in on my insurance policy; i.e., the rents’ couch,
I’d mooch off the folks for a couple of weeks and then take off to Moscow. There, I can stay at my dad’s friend’s crib. Maybe he’ll feed me too. When winter kicks in, I’ll hitchhike/couchsurf through Eurasia and the Caucasus . Once I run out of dough, I’ll re-occupy the rents’ couch until the reverse-mortgage part of the parent-child contract kicks in. That’s when I default and dodge. I’m thinking that once I hit thirty, I can combine internet dating and photoshop to meet another sucker whose photoshop skills rival my own.
The plan sounds pretty sweet, eh? The only unrealistic part of the whole shenanigan is moving back home. It was pretty sweet visiting the ‘rents for 2 weeks last year. They fed me well and baked me cookies. They didn’t insist I clean my room or closet; in fact, they cleaned it for me. They washed the dishes after me and bought me presents. It was lovely. But, having lived with them for twenty years, I know better than to fall for a 2 week honeymoon period. I’m fairly certain that after a month, I’d want to shoot myself. And if I shot myself, the plan would never materialize. And if the plan never materializes, what’s the point of moving back home?
Oi vay. I need a better plan. I’m working on one involving a millionaire and a puppy.
I’ve had quite a few mediocre plans, the majority of which involve 1) getting laid off or 2) quitting. I prefer the former. I’d like me some unemployment benefits. Besides, no one likes quitters, particularly not the ‘rents. As is apparent from the first sentence of my pseudo-rant, I’m still employed. So, I’m in a bit of a conundrum and have been forced to consider alternate ways of breaking free from the corporate shackles: alternative numero dos - quitting.
What would I do if I quit? I’d sell of all the useless shit I’ve accumulated, abandon my fancy-shmancy Hollywood crib, pack a few pairs of underwear and socks into my piece-of-shit Corolla and vagabond through the good ol’ States for a few weeks/months. Then, I’d cash in on my insurance policy; i.e., the rents’ couch,
I’d mooch off the folks for a couple of weeks and then take off to Moscow. There, I can stay at my dad’s friend’s crib. Maybe he’ll feed me too. When winter kicks in, I’ll hitchhike/couchsurf through Eurasia and the Caucasus . Once I run out of dough, I’ll re-occupy the rents’ couch until the reverse-mortgage part of the parent-child contract kicks in. That’s when I default and dodge. I’m thinking that once I hit thirty, I can combine internet dating and photoshop to meet another sucker whose photoshop skills rival my own.
The plan sounds pretty sweet, eh? The only unrealistic part of the whole shenanigan is moving back home. It was pretty sweet visiting the ‘rents for 2 weeks last year. They fed me well and baked me cookies. They didn’t insist I clean my room or closet; in fact, they cleaned it for me. They washed the dishes after me and bought me presents. It was lovely. But, having lived with them for twenty years, I know better than to fall for a 2 week honeymoon period. I’m fairly certain that after a month, I’d want to shoot myself. And if I shot myself, the plan would never materialize. And if the plan never materializes, what’s the point of moving back home?
Oi vay. I need a better plan. I’m working on one involving a millionaire and a puppy.
Monday, February 23, 2009
A conversation with my bro
“Lets drive to Alaska. Girls dig well traveled men.”
“No”
“You can claim to have fought loony bears with your bare hands…We can go to a bar, and I’ll confirm the story to the girl(s?!) you’ll be flirting with.”
“Wouldn’t you do that out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Goodness? Of MY heart?”
“Oh. Right. Still, NO!”
“It’s your birthday present. You have to go.”
“Fine, we can drive up to Yosemite.”
“You’re a genius! from there…it’s only a hop and a scotch to Alaska…”
“No!”
=(
“No”
“You can claim to have fought loony bears with your bare hands…We can go to a bar, and I’ll confirm the story to the girl(s?!) you’ll be flirting with.”
“Wouldn’t you do that out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Goodness? Of MY heart?”
“Oh. Right. Still, NO!”
“It’s your birthday present. You have to go.”
“Fine, we can drive up to Yosemite.”
“You’re a genius! from there…it’s only a hop and a scotch to Alaska…”
“No!”
=(
Because California is on the brink of bankruptcy...
It’s Friday night. 10PM. I take the Highland/Hollywood exit off the 101.
Goddamnit. It’s standing. The Oscar prep is on full blast. 5 minutes. 15 minutes.30 minutes. I finally make it to Sunset. The place is a parking lot. I can’t switch into the right most lane to make the right turn, so I decide to go straight and turn right on the next block. That’s the beauty of LA. The roads form an endless giant grid. There are hundreds of ways to get to your final destination; via a zigzag pattern, the no-bullshit-linear pattern, the kill-the-least-pedestrians pattern, etc …
I pass Sunset. Finally. There are tons of bright orange cones ahead and the lanes merge into one. Construction? An accident? Scattered around the orange cones are about 2 to 3 dozen cops. Are they taking a forced Friday off? Begging for change on the streets? Stupid Budget Crisis. Stupid Schwarzenegger. I drive slowly and cautiously, reaching for my jar of change.
There’s a stop sign. I stop. Count: One. Two. Three. Gas.
I continue on my merry path, moving at 2mph, trying to remain nonchalant. Traffic is boring. I make eye contact with a cop. Accidently.
He shines a flashlight and motions for me to pull over to the right.
Oh. Great. But I’m an exemplary, law abiding citizen! One who temporarily misplaced her driver’s license and who was just pulled over yesterday.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I pretend to panic and frantically search for my purse. The whole damsel in distress bit worked quite well yesterday. I pull out my purse and continue the search for my wallet, which in theory should contain my driver’s license.
“A lady with a purple purse!” One of the cops jubilantly shouts. They’re both smiling at me.
I let out a deer in the highlights look, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re fine, this is a random sobriety check point.”
Seriously. A sobriety check point? Right off the 101 Hollywood exit? It took me half an hour to drive two blocks! Multiply this by hundreds of cars, and hundreds of gallons of gas and 2-3 dozen cop salaries and I think we know why California is out of dough; Yes, it’s all my fault. I’ll try to cut down on my alcohol consumption.
Goddamnit. It’s standing. The Oscar prep is on full blast. 5 minutes. 15 minutes.30 minutes. I finally make it to Sunset. The place is a parking lot. I can’t switch into the right most lane to make the right turn, so I decide to go straight and turn right on the next block. That’s the beauty of LA. The roads form an endless giant grid. There are hundreds of ways to get to your final destination; via a zigzag pattern, the no-bullshit-linear pattern, the kill-the-least-pedestrians pattern, etc …
I pass Sunset. Finally. There are tons of bright orange cones ahead and the lanes merge into one. Construction? An accident? Scattered around the orange cones are about 2 to 3 dozen cops. Are they taking a forced Friday off? Begging for change on the streets? Stupid Budget Crisis. Stupid Schwarzenegger. I drive slowly and cautiously, reaching for my jar of change.
There’s a stop sign. I stop. Count: One. Two. Three. Gas.
I continue on my merry path, moving at 2mph, trying to remain nonchalant. Traffic is boring. I make eye contact with a cop. Accidently.
He shines a flashlight and motions for me to pull over to the right.
Oh. Great. But I’m an exemplary, law abiding citizen! One who temporarily misplaced her driver’s license and who was just pulled over yesterday.
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
I pretend to panic and frantically search for my purse. The whole damsel in distress bit worked quite well yesterday. I pull out my purse and continue the search for my wallet, which in theory should contain my driver’s license.
“A lady with a purple purse!” One of the cops jubilantly shouts. They’re both smiling at me.
I let out a deer in the highlights look, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, you’re fine, this is a random sobriety check point.”
Seriously. A sobriety check point? Right off the 101 Hollywood exit? It took me half an hour to drive two blocks! Multiply this by hundreds of cars, and hundreds of gallons of gas and 2-3 dozen cop salaries and I think we know why California is out of dough; Yes, it’s all my fault. I’ll try to cut down on my alcohol consumption.
Soviet Humor
An American and a Soviet soldier kill each other and end up at the pearly gates
at the same time. Peter says “well, we have national division in hell as well,
but you may choose where you’d like to go. There is an American hell and a Russian hell.”
American: what’s the difference?
Peter: well, in the American hell you have to eat a shovel of shit a day.
Russian: and in Russian hell?
Peter: two shovels of shit.
American: I’ll go to American hell.
Russian: well, two shovels of shit, it’s not nice, but I was a Russian alive and I died a Russian and I’ll go to Russian hell.
Millenniums later, the same two soldiers end up doing sentry duty at the checkpoint at the border between American and Russian hell at the same time.
Russian: Hi hi hi! How you doing! Long time no see!
American: Hey! How are you, you look good!
Russian: how is it over there in American hell?
American: oh, one shovel of shit a day, you get used to it. How about Russian
hell?
Russian: well, you know how it is, one day there’s no shit, the next day no
shovels. . .
at the same time. Peter says “well, we have national division in hell as well,
but you may choose where you’d like to go. There is an American hell and a Russian hell.”
American: what’s the difference?
Peter: well, in the American hell you have to eat a shovel of shit a day.
Russian: and in Russian hell?
Peter: two shovels of shit.
American: I’ll go to American hell.
Russian: well, two shovels of shit, it’s not nice, but I was a Russian alive and I died a Russian and I’ll go to Russian hell.
Millenniums later, the same two soldiers end up doing sentry duty at the checkpoint at the border between American and Russian hell at the same time.
Russian: Hi hi hi! How you doing! Long time no see!
American: Hey! How are you, you look good!
Russian: how is it over there in American hell?
American: oh, one shovel of shit a day, you get used to it. How about Russian
hell?
Russian: well, you know how it is, one day there’s no shit, the next day no
shovels. . .
Thursday, February 19, 2009
FIFO, LIFO and Ida (FILO)
I am so tired.
My eyes are closing. Burning.
I’m at a client. In a conference room. Alone. Staring at my laptop. Trying to “get shit done”. My manager is calling. I pick up. She blabs and blabs. She asks me something. I reply with something. I’m Sleep-talking. She invaded my dreams last night.
It feels like I never really woke up.
Lost reception. Fantastic.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I still doing here?
The client’s Controller comes in. “Good Morning! Did you sleep here last night?!” He too blabs and blabs…”I hope you’re the senior on this job next year!” Oh god. Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. I inadvertently blurt out, “if I’m back here next year, shoot me.” He lets out a phony laugh. I try to elaborate “it’s not you…it’s me” This feels so much like a break up. I wish it was.
He knows I’m not kidding. We discussed this endlessly over lunch yesterday. I actually took a lunch yesterday . It was weird; stepping outside, daylight stabbing my bloodshot eyes. The pain trickled down. My heart ached. Gosh, sunlight. I wish I could be out playing.
This goddamn pattern. Will it end? Wake up. Work. Gym. Sleep. Repeat 5X. Chores. Clean. Gym. Bills. Repeat 2X.
Repeat 52X. Continue for the next 40 years. Retire. Die.
My mom called me last night. It was midnight in Crabby state. I’m just getting off work.
“You sound tired, gavnushka”
“I am mom”
“Everything will work itself out, you’ll see”
I can’t bear this. These words; they sting more than sunlight.
How can she say this? Nothing ever “worked itself out” for her.
I gag, holding back tears.
“I got to go Mama. I’m driving. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
My eyes are closing. Burning.
I’m at a client. In a conference room. Alone. Staring at my laptop. Trying to “get shit done”. My manager is calling. I pick up. She blabs and blabs. She asks me something. I reply with something. I’m Sleep-talking. She invaded my dreams last night.
It feels like I never really woke up.
Lost reception. Fantastic.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I still doing here?
The client’s Controller comes in. “Good Morning! Did you sleep here last night?!” He too blabs and blabs…”I hope you’re the senior on this job next year!” Oh god. Don’t say that. Please, don’t say that. I inadvertently blurt out, “if I’m back here next year, shoot me.” He lets out a phony laugh. I try to elaborate “it’s not you…it’s me” This feels so much like a break up. I wish it was.
He knows I’m not kidding. We discussed this endlessly over lunch yesterday. I actually took a lunch yesterday . It was weird; stepping outside, daylight stabbing my bloodshot eyes. The pain trickled down. My heart ached. Gosh, sunlight. I wish I could be out playing.
This goddamn pattern. Will it end? Wake up. Work. Gym. Sleep. Repeat 5X. Chores. Clean. Gym. Bills. Repeat 2X.
Repeat 52X. Continue for the next 40 years. Retire. Die.
My mom called me last night. It was midnight in Crabby state. I’m just getting off work.
“You sound tired, gavnushka”
“I am mom”
“Everything will work itself out, you’ll see”
I can’t bear this. These words; they sting more than sunlight.
How can she say this? Nothing ever “worked itself out” for her.
I gag, holding back tears.
“I got to go Mama. I’m driving. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Monday, January 19, 2009
Caution: This is a Love Story.
I don’t write love stories (actually, nowadays, I don’t write much period). They’re cheesy and mega annoying.
But ever since that fateful day in March, I’ve been in love.
We met online on a slickdeals forum. I clicked on a link someone posted, and voila! There was Jack. His picture captivated me: He was black, strong, and made of steel. It was love at first sight. But I couldn’t just rely on impulses and emotions. Sure, he seemed perfect; but, like any other man, I’m sure he had his vices.
So, I did what any intelligent, human girl would do: I google stalked. I read up on my object of affection. His reviews were overwhelmingly positive. I’ve seen him at Best Buy before. I’d pass by, wink and pat my eyelashes. I don’t know if he noticed me then and there.
And then, on a decisive LA morning I skipped work and made my way to Best Buy; biting my nails, thinking of ice breakers, and figuring out what I can afford to offer in exchange.
When I laid my eyes on him again, I knew I had to take him home. So I did.
At first, I didn’t know how to handle him. I was scared. Scared that if I make the first move, unwrap his package, and snap away, we’d hit a point of no return. What if I don’t like him afterwards? What if he’s not who he appears to be? What if his extremity is not long enough? His focus is not sharp enough? And what if…I’m just not that into him?! He’d be an expensive mistake and I can’t afford to make those; I have a fragile heart (and an even more fragile bank account).
But you know what? I took a chance...and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
But ever since that fateful day in March, I’ve been in love.
We met online on a slickdeals forum. I clicked on a link someone posted, and voila! There was Jack. His picture captivated me: He was black, strong, and made of steel. It was love at first sight. But I couldn’t just rely on impulses and emotions. Sure, he seemed perfect; but, like any other man, I’m sure he had his vices.
So, I did what any intelligent, human girl would do: I google stalked. I read up on my object of affection. His reviews were overwhelmingly positive. I’ve seen him at Best Buy before. I’d pass by, wink and pat my eyelashes. I don’t know if he noticed me then and there.
And then, on a decisive LA morning I skipped work and made my way to Best Buy; biting my nails, thinking of ice breakers, and figuring out what I can afford to offer in exchange.
When I laid my eyes on him again, I knew I had to take him home. So I did.
At first, I didn’t know how to handle him. I was scared. Scared that if I make the first move, unwrap his package, and snap away, we’d hit a point of no return. What if I don’t like him afterwards? What if he’s not who he appears to be? What if his extremity is not long enough? His focus is not sharp enough? And what if…I’m just not that into him?! He’d be an expensive mistake and I can’t afford to make those; I have a fragile heart (and an even more fragile bank account).
But you know what? I took a chance...and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Monday, January 12, 2009
A day in the life...
Woke up, got out of bed,
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
***
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
If I say it enough times, will I get sick?
Are you sick? Can you sneeze on me?
AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup,
And looking up I noticed I was late.
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke,
and Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
***
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
I don’t want to go to work.
If I say it enough times, will I get sick?
Are you sick? Can you sneeze on me?
AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
This is your brain on drugs...
Have you guys seen those anti-drug commercials? The ones that go….“This is your brain on…" I wonder if they’re looking for a few exemplary “cautionary cases” I am such a perfect candidate!!!
I found this the other day. I think I’ll title it “This is Your Brain after…1.5 years in Public Accounting.”
I always knew I belonged in Hollywood.
I found this the other day. I think I’ll title it “This is Your Brain after…1.5 years in Public Accounting.”
I always knew I belonged in Hollywood.
Far From the Madding Ida.
I don’t fucking get you, stupid “smart people“.
Scratch that. I do get you. You just don’t get yourself.
Or maybe, I don’t get whether I get that I don’t get you.
Smart people do not understand the most basic concepts. Smart people try too hard, too much, and go to far. Smart people preach that ignorance is bliss, but proceed contrary to that logic. Smart people are society’s whipping boys. How stupid.
Do smart people ever question themselves as to why they strive so damn hard to “achieve“ something? Why do they spend countless hours, entire lives even, solving complex problems? W-H-Y?
When I was “smart”, solving hard problems was like a masochist‘s wet dream. The solving part hurt like hell…but arriving at a solution was the smart-people equivalent of an orgasm. When I grew older andwiser stupider, I thought, “why must one suffer agony to reach an orgasm? Isn’t there a more direct/optimized path?”
It took years of hardcore research, experimentation, and the sacrifice of millions of brain cells; but I found the answer.
I feel like I figured out the “prime formula“ .
Scratch that. I do get you. You just don’t get yourself.
Or maybe, I don’t get whether I get that I don’t get you.
Smart people do not understand the most basic concepts. Smart people try too hard, too much, and go to far. Smart people preach that ignorance is bliss, but proceed contrary to that logic. Smart people are society’s whipping boys. How stupid.
Do smart people ever question themselves as to why they strive so damn hard to “achieve“ something? Why do they spend countless hours, entire lives even, solving complex problems? W-H-Y?
When I was “smart”, solving hard problems was like a masochist‘s wet dream. The solving part hurt like hell…but arriving at a solution was the smart-people equivalent of an orgasm. When I grew older and
It took years of hardcore research, experimentation, and the sacrifice of millions of brain cells; but I found the answer.
I feel like I figured out the “prime formula“ .
Monday, January 5, 2009
All by myself....
My living conditions are completely devoid of life. So, I got a basil plant. But it sort of died. I think it needed to be watered or something. Then, I bought this purple flowery thing, and I watered it once in a while. It was so lovely! But then it too wilted and died.
I think I’m going to get a cactus. But cactuses need sunlight. Maybe I’ll get a kitten. Do kittens need sunlight? Or water? I hope not. My apartment is pretty shady . Although, it’s a tad bit brighter since being painted last week. Today, the bro came by to check out my newly painted crib. After a tour of the living room, a quick rest in the restroom, he wondered into my room...
“How do you like the peaceful shade of light blueish-green? It‘s called Playa. Spanish for the Beach!”
He looks around. “You know….”he pauses briefly, his neurons fire back and forth in an attempt to find the most expressive words, “I really, REALLY, like your toilet paper. It‘s so soft.”
I may not make the best aesthetic choices, but I sure know how to pick toilet paper.
Anyhow, back to the kitten. I think it may need water. Which isn’t an issue, the toilet is overflowing. It probably needs food too though. I’ll let it hunt for mice and cockroaches. I might not have any, however. In which case, I’ll let it outside and it can fight the homeless fat cat for the charity food bowl. I’m sure it will win, if not…I’ll get another cat that can either fight or hunt.
If the kitten doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll get a roommate. They’re less likely to die.
I think I’m going to get a cactus. But cactuses need sunlight. Maybe I’ll get a kitten. Do kittens need sunlight? Or water? I hope not. My apartment is pretty shady . Although, it’s a tad bit brighter since being painted last week. Today, the bro came by to check out my newly painted crib. After a tour of the living room, a quick rest in the restroom, he wondered into my room...
“How do you like the peaceful shade of light blueish-green? It‘s called Playa. Spanish for the Beach!”
He looks around. “You know….”he pauses briefly, his neurons fire back and forth in an attempt to find the most expressive words, “I really, REALLY, like your toilet paper. It‘s so soft.”
I may not make the best aesthetic choices, but I sure know how to pick toilet paper.
Anyhow, back to the kitten. I think it may need water. Which isn’t an issue, the toilet is overflowing. It probably needs food too though. I’ll let it hunt for mice and cockroaches. I might not have any, however. In which case, I’ll let it outside and it can fight the homeless fat cat for the charity food bowl. I’m sure it will win, if not…I’ll get another cat that can either fight or hunt.
If the kitten doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll get a roommate. They’re less likely to die.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Sunday Morning
Sunday morning
And I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Ugh. Sunday. Friggin Sunday. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW!
Maybe I’ll win the lottery. Or get hitched to a Millionaire? Perhaps stumble on a million dollars someone dropped by the side of the road (hey man, I heard bank robberies are on the rise. Speaking of which….Maybe I’ll rob a bank.)
It’s too bad my dreams are completely unrealistic: No lottery today. No straight millionaires in close proximity. No banks open on Sundays. Fuck, why can’t things ever go my way?! Life is so unfair.
And I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning
Sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago
Ugh. Sunday. Friggin Sunday. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW!
Maybe I’ll win the lottery. Or get hitched to a Millionaire? Perhaps stumble on a million dollars someone dropped by the side of the road (hey man, I heard bank robberies are on the rise. Speaking of which….Maybe I’ll rob a bank.)
It’s too bad my dreams are completely unrealistic: No lottery today. No straight millionaires in close proximity. No banks open on Sundays. Fuck, why can’t things ever go my way?! Life is so unfair.
I failed to save the Gaithersburg economy.
Now that I'm gone, so is the Gaithersburg Borders.
How very, very sad. That Borders istwo miles from my parent’s crib a total gem. It was so lovely and quite and filled with...ahem, just me.
I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. However, my new resolution just happens to coincide with the new year. From today on, I will do things when I think of them. On my list of shit-to-do is 1) Write a goddamn cover letter 2) Start writing a goddamn script (or a certain person of Macedonian descent might give up on me.) and 3) Blog. I miss blogging.
And while I'm thinking of blogging now, I'm also thinking of going to sleep. Given that its past 1AM, the latter takes precedence. Buenas noches, mi amigos (oh! I’m also thinking of learning Español).
How very, very sad. That Borders is
I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. However, my new resolution just happens to coincide with the new year. From today on, I will do things when I think of them. On my list of shit-to-do is 1) Write a goddamn cover letter 2) Start writing a goddamn script (or a certain person of Macedonian descent might give up on me.) and 3) Blog. I miss blogging.
And while I'm thinking of blogging now, I'm also thinking of going to sleep. Given that its past 1AM, the latter takes precedence. Buenas noches, mi amigos (oh! I’m also thinking of learning Español).
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
S novim godom, s novim schastyem...
I used to love New Years. Growing up in the Motherland, New Years was (and probably continues to be) the biggest holiday of the year. It’s hard to explain to Americans why New Years is such a major and important holiday for my comrades. The easiest way to get across the meaning of New Years is to compare it to Christmas. We have a pine tree and pine tree décor, our own version of Santa (Ded Moroz), and gift exchange at midnight.
Why did New Years come to be such a major holiday for folks living in the former Soviet Union? In essence, New Years is a “socialization” of Christmas post the Bolshevik Revolution. The “Russian” New Year isn’t religious in nature. It is about good times, good food, and good drinks. Mostly the latter.
Some Orthodox Russians still celebrate Christmas, albeit on a different day. Celebration is brief and simple in nature and does not receive much media exploitation. Christmas to an Orthodox (Christian) Russian is like Hanukkah to an Orthodox Jew; a relatively minor holiday.
For the past twenty one years, I celebrated every single New Year’s with my parents. I always wanted to get away, and when the teenage years hit, I always did (after midnight, of’ course, like the rest of my Russian friends). But this New Year’s, while I have so many places to get away to, I have no one to get away from. My parents are 3,000 miles away. And it feels terrible.
So I’m sad. And I’m nostalgic for my kiddie years during which New Years was such an overbearing joy. My most fond memory of New Year’s was when my dad got a hold of Coca Cola and mandarins (I’m assuming on the black market). I lingered on every gulp of Coke and on every bite of the mandarin (The glass bottle of Coke lasted me for four hours, and I ate my mandarin over the span of one hour). New Year’s also meant cheese, kalbasa, and two pieces of chocolate.
I sort of laugh at it now; how could a glass bottle of Coke, a mandarin, and a few bites of chocolate bring such joy? Because such things were a deficit.
New Year’s in America never hit that same level of ecstasy. I have enough Coke to clean my toilet bowl….and I’m miserable. Why? Because while everything else is readily available; happiness in the good ol‘ USA, is considered a delicacy.
Why did New Years come to be such a major holiday for folks living in the former Soviet Union? In essence, New Years is a “socialization” of Christmas post the Bolshevik Revolution. The “Russian” New Year isn’t religious in nature. It is about good times, good food, and good drinks. Mostly the latter.
Some Orthodox Russians still celebrate Christmas, albeit on a different day. Celebration is brief and simple in nature and does not receive much media exploitation. Christmas to an Orthodox (Christian) Russian is like Hanukkah to an Orthodox Jew; a relatively minor holiday.
For the past twenty one years, I celebrated every single New Year’s with my parents. I always wanted to get away, and when the teenage years hit, I always did (after midnight, of’ course, like the rest of my Russian friends). But this New Year’s, while I have so many places to get away to, I have no one to get away from. My parents are 3,000 miles away. And it feels terrible.
So I’m sad. And I’m nostalgic for my kiddie years during which New Years was such an overbearing joy. My most fond memory of New Year’s was when my dad got a hold of Coca Cola and mandarins (I’m assuming on the black market). I lingered on every gulp of Coke and on every bite of the mandarin (The glass bottle of Coke lasted me for four hours, and I ate my mandarin over the span of one hour). New Year’s also meant cheese, kalbasa, and two pieces of chocolate.
I sort of laugh at it now; how could a glass bottle of Coke, a mandarin, and a few bites of chocolate bring such joy? Because such things were a deficit.
New Year’s in America never hit that same level of ecstasy. I have enough Coke to clean my toilet bowl….and I’m miserable. Why? Because while everything else is readily available; happiness in the good ol‘ USA, is considered a delicacy.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
The most beautiful scene in film history...
The scene is from the movie "Karnavalnaya Noch" (Carnival Night). It's a Russian New Year's classic...
The title of the song "Pesenka Pro Pyat Minut" is translated as "A Song About Five Minutes".
The title of the song "Pesenka Pro Pyat Minut" is translated as "A Song About Five Minutes".
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Confusion
For the past year, I’ve been trying to set plans, goals, and expectations.
In High School, setting goals was so elementary (no pun intended). The seemingly objective questions of where I see myself in 5-10 years was never really a question of “where” I actually see myself. It had nothing to do with physical presence. It wasn’t a matter of Guatemala or Czechoslovakia? California or Middle-of-Nowhere, Maryland? “Where” was meant to be interpreted as where do I see myself slaving away as a corporate bitch? I was even given tests to find which type of bitchdom is best suited for my specific type of personality. Was I best suited to be an ivory tower bitch? A corporate ladder climbing bitch? A “would-you-like-fries-with-that” Bitch?
Back in my younger days, I wanted to be a neurobiochemophysicistbitch. And then, along my merry path to thicker glasses and heavier textbooks, I spiraled into a hardcore state of depression. At sixteen, I dropped out of school. Now, I don’t see myself doing shit.
My most remembered memory from times long past, is a quote from a High School teacher “If you weren’t such a goddamn lazy bum, you could of gone to Harvard”. It was partially because of him that I didn’t.
Fast-forward to life after high school, I ended up working in an accounting office. There, through millions of other people’s tax forms, I discovered that ivory tower bitchdom pays significantly less then corporate-ladder-climbing bitchdom…. So I set my dreams on getting me some dough.
Dough was something my family was familiar with. “Fresh Off the Boat”, my parents, both ridiculously brilliant physicists, slaved away at an orthodox Jewish bakery from 4AM to 8PM and took community college classes from 8PM to 10PM. As a family of four, we lived in a one bedroom apartment. It was pretty fucking brutal. My brother and I were constantly chasing each other with tennis rackets and fighting over personal space.
My depression hit just when my dad moved to the East Coast (he landed a “real” gig). And even though our income skyrocketed to the likes we have never experienced, the mentality of “we-are-still-dirt-poor” never vanished. My mom continued to work incredibly long hours in the same shit hole that my dad abandoned. Hungry for personal space, and tired of hearing my mom bitch about my dad’s “undoing of our family unit”, I packed my bags and headed East.
I don’t know if that was a wise decision. I don’t know if any of the decisions I’ve made were “wise”. By the time I moved, I had already set my “5 to 10 year plan”. I wanted a “Big C” title. CFO, CEO, C-something-or-other-O. I planned on raking in the green, owning top of the line business suits, and wearing pearls and Channel to elaborate dinner parties.
So what happened? Why am I giving up on this whole career business?
My upbringings preached that “financial stability” was the golden route to happiness. And only recently did I realize, I prefer the dirt path.
To be continued…
In High School, setting goals was so elementary (no pun intended). The seemingly objective questions of where I see myself in 5-10 years was never really a question of “where” I actually see myself. It had nothing to do with physical presence. It wasn’t a matter of Guatemala or Czechoslovakia? California or Middle-of-Nowhere, Maryland? “Where” was meant to be interpreted as where do I see myself slaving away as a corporate bitch? I was even given tests to find which type of bitchdom is best suited for my specific type of personality. Was I best suited to be an ivory tower bitch? A corporate ladder climbing bitch? A “would-you-like-fries-with-that” Bitch?
Back in my younger days, I wanted to be a neurobiochemophysicistbitch. And then, along my merry path to thicker glasses and heavier textbooks, I spiraled into a hardcore state of depression. At sixteen, I dropped out of school. Now, I don’t see myself doing shit.
My most remembered memory from times long past, is a quote from a High School teacher “If you weren’t such a goddamn lazy bum, you could of gone to Harvard”. It was partially because of him that I didn’t.
Fast-forward to life after high school, I ended up working in an accounting office. There, through millions of other people’s tax forms, I discovered that ivory tower bitchdom pays significantly less then corporate-ladder-climbing bitchdom…. So I set my dreams on getting me some dough.
Dough was something my family was familiar with. “Fresh Off the Boat”, my parents, both ridiculously brilliant physicists, slaved away at an orthodox Jewish bakery from 4AM to 8PM and took community college classes from 8PM to 10PM. As a family of four, we lived in a one bedroom apartment. It was pretty fucking brutal. My brother and I were constantly chasing each other with tennis rackets and fighting over personal space.
My depression hit just when my dad moved to the East Coast (he landed a “real” gig). And even though our income skyrocketed to the likes we have never experienced, the mentality of “we-are-still-dirt-poor” never vanished. My mom continued to work incredibly long hours in the same shit hole that my dad abandoned. Hungry for personal space, and tired of hearing my mom bitch about my dad’s “undoing of our family unit”, I packed my bags and headed East.
I don’t know if that was a wise decision. I don’t know if any of the decisions I’ve made were “wise”. By the time I moved, I had already set my “5 to 10 year plan”. I wanted a “Big C” title. CFO, CEO, C-something-or-other-O. I planned on raking in the green, owning top of the line business suits, and wearing pearls and Channel to elaborate dinner parties.
So what happened? Why am I giving up on this whole career business?
My upbringings preached that “financial stability” was the golden route to happiness. And only recently did I realize, I prefer the dirt path.
To be continued…
Monday, December 1, 2008
Smile!
I’m feeling Tom Sawyer-ish. I’m painting the fence and tons of individuals are voluntarily picking up the brush and giving me delicious freebies.
This whole photography thing is a total blast! Every goddamn individual within a five mile radius wants their picture taken. Welcome to Hollywood.
Word’s been spreading. Friends put up the pictures I took of them onto all sorts of social media networks and suddenly friends of friends are asking for my digits and offering pretty fantastic exchanges.
As for the latest, meet my personal trainer. He plays the piano. And the guitar. He’s a stunts man and a Steely Dan fan and that makes him totally awesome. When he isn’t busy modeling, he’s kicking my [big, but soon-to-be-smaller] behind.
Soon, I’ll be need someone to help me paint my crib. Or tile my kitchen. Cheeeeezeee anyone?
Also, I encourage everyone to get hitched cause wedding photography is where the dough is.
This whole photography thing is a total blast! Every goddamn individual within a five mile radius wants their picture taken. Welcome to Hollywood.
Word’s been spreading. Friends put up the pictures I took of them onto all sorts of social media networks and suddenly friends of friends are asking for my digits and offering pretty fantastic exchanges.
As for the latest, meet my personal trainer. He plays the piano. And the guitar. He’s a stunts man and a Steely Dan fan and that makes him totally awesome. When he isn’t busy modeling, he’s kicking my [big, but soon-to-be-smaller] behind.
Soon, I’ll be need someone to help me paint my crib. Or tile my kitchen. Cheeeeezeee anyone?
Also, I encourage everyone to get hitched cause wedding photography is where the dough is.
Monday, November 10, 2008
What’s the male-to-female ratio in Australia?!
I’m confused. My coworker offered me candy. And I never question the intentions of those who offer me candy. To prepare my mouth for the sweet sensation of either fruity, chocolate-y, caramel-y, etc-y...I inquire; “What candy?”
“It’s an Australian Lifesaver”
Oh. Okay. Fruity. And exotic! I like fruity. And I like Australians. I dig in.
My coworker is watching me; “What does it taste like?”
“WHAT?! You haven’t tried it?! It tastes like I just licked a man!”
“Hehe! It’s musk.”
Let us kill our babies!
Dear Religious Zealots,
We need to chat. In the past few days, me and the collective “You” have been at odds. You think a few cells inside a uterus are a little human twit. I think a few cells inside a uterus have less consciousness than a cockroach.
Don’t you understand, that if all the people whose values allow them to abort a few cells would do so, it would translate into a future majority for you? YOU would multiply and prosper while the baby-killers and the condom-lovers would goto hell extinct. Evolution, I mean, Intelligent Design, at work!
And regarding the “GAY” issue; Why does it matter to you how marriage is “legally” defined? How does it affect you? I don’t get it. I seriously do not fucking get it.
“But OUR children would be taught that marriage is between individual A and individual B, regardless of gender.”
And your children are also being taught that the world was created without a Big Bang between Mary and Joseph. But that’s besides the point; schools do not teach what “marriage” is. That’s the parents' job. Marriage is not a legal definition. It is a learned concept. My parents are married. Had they not been “legally married“, it wouldn’t alter my perception of our family unit. Marriage is a creation of kinship outside the bloodline, not a definition found in a High School textbook.
Ugh.
Yours truly,
-An Imported, Un-aborted Jew
PS. Please do not outlaw self-abuse. Or adult toys. 'Cause that would blow, ahem.
We need to chat. In the past few days, me and the collective “You” have been at odds. You think a few cells inside a uterus are a little human twit. I think a few cells inside a uterus have less consciousness than a cockroach.
Don’t you understand, that if all the people whose values allow them to abort a few cells would do so, it would translate into a future majority for you? YOU would multiply and prosper while the baby-killers and the condom-lovers would go
And regarding the “GAY” issue; Why does it matter to you how marriage is “legally” defined? How does it affect you? I don’t get it. I seriously do not fucking get it.
“But OUR children would be taught that marriage is between individual A and individual B, regardless of gender.”
And your children are also being taught that the world was created without a Big Bang between Mary and Joseph. But that’s besides the point; schools do not teach what “marriage” is. That’s the parents' job. Marriage is not a legal definition. It is a learned concept. My parents are married. Had they not been “legally married“, it wouldn’t alter my perception of our family unit. Marriage is a creation of kinship outside the bloodline, not a definition found in a High School textbook.
Ugh.
Yours truly,
-An Imported, Un-aborted Jew
PS. Please do not outlaw self-abuse. Or adult toys. 'Cause that would blow, ahem.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Sticker
Chorus (repeat 2x)
I did it all for the sticker!
Come on
The sticker!
So I can take that sticker, and stick it on my shirt (yeah!)
Why did it take so long? (the line)
Why did I wait so long, huh? (7:58PM)
To figure it out
But I did it!
And I'm not the only one (damnit!)
I’m mucho excited; I won’t have to marry a Canadian. The sub-zero winters are harsh on my skin.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Ode to Coffee Bean
I’m in a pleasant mood today (a change of pace from the past 22 years, 4 months and 8 days). After my gig as a corporate bitch, I took “my” laptop to Coffee Bean with the intention of updating my resume, browsing job ads, and thinking of alternate ways to rake in the dough (hustling, pimping, and bank robbing).
Initially, I was going to begin with Step (1) of the job hunting process: thinking of ways to creatively showcase all my splendid accomplishments on my resume (read: use impressively big action verbs such as; executed [my fellow coworkers], accelerated [my job search], communicated [my dissatisfaction], reorganized [my desk], forecasted [my last day], etc.)
I got to The Bean, laptop in tow, ordered my nightly caffeine concoction, unwrapped my TJ’s 72% dark chocolate bar, and began the tedious process: I turned on my work laptop (take that, my current place of employment!). But alas, a single mouse click on my soon-to-be Lenovo thinkpad halted all progress (take that, stupid, lazy Ida!). Just mere minutes after the laptop booted, prior to my even opening a word document containing myweb of lies resume and cover letter (Goddamnit, Do I really need a cover letter? Can’t I just beg? And cry? That used to work so well when I was five.), I discovered something that only a person of Jewish descent can fully appreciate: (hold your breath for 56.239 seconds)……Coffee Bean now offers FR*E [thank G*D!] Wi-Fi! I think my nose grew 0.0234mm.
Oh, how I love you, Coffee Bean!!! Let me count the ways..
1) You, my dear, have a patio! Sure, it’s filled with who's-who of the West Hollywood Russian crowd, and it reeks of cigarettes and pot, but gosh, the comrades are so entertaining! And when I miss the beauty of the Russian language spoken with a distinctly thick Armenian accent, this place offers such exquisite words of comfort: blya, pizdets, idi na huy.
2)You’re 100% Kosher. And even though I had a turkey sandwich before adding dairy to my coffee, you make me feel like a better Jew.
3)The Barista gave me a free coffee refill. He even offered me pastries! SWEET, SWEET, PASTRIES! FOR FR*E! Cause I smiled. I need to brush my teeth and figure out his work schedule.
4)You’re all over. By work, by home, by the park, near the beach, on Sunset Strip, inside Ralphs and on my way to the gym .
5)You’re open on Christmas. Starbucks is closed. Let’s get married? I’ll consent to naming our kid Joe the Coffee Cup.
Initially, I was going to begin with Step (1) of the job hunting process: thinking of ways to creatively showcase all my splendid accomplishments on my resume (read: use impressively big action verbs such as; executed [my fellow coworkers], accelerated [my job search], communicated [my dissatisfaction], reorganized [my desk], forecasted [my last day], etc.)
I got to The Bean, laptop in tow, ordered my nightly caffeine concoction, unwrapped my TJ’s 72% dark chocolate bar, and began the tedious process: I turned on my work laptop (take that, my current place of employment!). But alas, a single mouse click on my soon-to-be Lenovo thinkpad halted all progress (take that, stupid, lazy Ida!). Just mere minutes after the laptop booted, prior to my even opening a word document containing my
Oh, how I love you, Coffee Bean!!! Let me count the ways..
1) You, my dear, have a patio! Sure, it’s filled with who's-who of the West Hollywood Russian crowd, and it reeks of cigarettes and pot, but gosh, the comrades are so entertaining! And when I miss the beauty of the Russian language spoken with a distinctly thick Armenian accent, this place offers such exquisite words of comfort: blya, pizdets, idi na huy.
2)You’re 100% Kosher. And even though I had a turkey sandwich before adding dairy to my coffee, you make me feel like a better Jew.
3)The Barista gave me a free coffee refill. He even offered me pastries! SWEET, SWEET, PASTRIES! FOR FR*E! Cause I smiled. I need to brush my teeth and figure out his work schedule.
4)You’re all over. By work, by home, by the park, near the beach, on Sunset Strip, inside Ralphs
5)You’re open on Christmas. Starbucks is closed. Let’s get married? I’ll consent to naming our kid Joe the Coffee Cup.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Seriously, DC, wtf?!
I want FALL. I came here for FALL. Goddamnit.
There only traces of fall. Mere fucking traces. I want full blown out winds. Thunder. Rain. Colorful, twirling, leaves. But instead, I get sing-song birds, blue skies, and blooming flowers. Disgusting.
DC, you got five days.
PS. Where should I watch the presidential debate? I want authentic atmosphere. Stuffy ties, leather shoes, blackberries. And cheap liquid, too.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Obscure.
I’m scared.
Scared that if I quit the rat race. If I leave. Disappear. Run away from it. That, one day, I’ll find myself useless.
One day, when I’m old, gray, and alone…I’ll wish that I had a career.
One day, I’ll realize that I should of tried harder. One day, I’ll think back to today and imagine the missed opportunities. One day, I’ll wish that I was less idealistic and more materialistic. One fucking day when I’m fifty.
But this “one day” is not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day afterwards. It’s not Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday.
Because today I’m a dreamer. Today I want to be a stewardess. Or a barista. Waitress, maybe. Or a photographer. Journalist. Writer. Poet. A bum. A hustler. A drunkard, too.
Today, I want to go to bed and dream of things I’ll never be.
Buenas Noches.
Scared that if I quit the rat race. If I leave. Disappear. Run away from it. That, one day, I’ll find myself useless.
One day, when I’m old, gray, and alone…I’ll wish that I had a career.
One day, I’ll realize that I should of tried harder. One day, I’ll think back to today and imagine the missed opportunities. One day, I’ll wish that I was less idealistic and more materialistic. One fucking day when I’m fifty.
But this “one day” is not today. Or tomorrow. Or the day afterwards. It’s not Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday.
Because today I’m a dreamer. Today I want to be a stewardess. Or a barista. Waitress, maybe. Or a photographer. Journalist. Writer. Poet. A bum. A hustler. A drunkard, too.
Today, I want to go to bed and dream of things I’ll never be.
Buenas Noches.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
