raison d'être.

College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I  called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."

Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.

This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.

I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?

Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.

I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.

If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.

Where does that leave me?

It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.

Another List of Yesteryear.

Things I've done since October 2013:

1. I traveled to Europe for the first time since college — this time to Ireland with my sister and mom. The three of us had never taken a trip anywhere together, and save for three blow ups* (one each), we had a pretty excellent time. 
• Colleen's was right after landing when my mom picked her up from the airport at 6am and somehow a 20 minute car ride took 3 hours. ("Fuck one way roads."-Mommy Sheila)
• Mine was post getting hammered in Dingle when my mom told me I couldn't get more hammered. I was a woman outside of herself. I've had many a terrible moment, but I think that one takes the cake as far as intent to cause pain.
• Sheila's came when Colleen and I made her ride 33 miles around the Dingle Peninsula. She claimed she couldn't do it and had allegedly not ridden a bike in eight years. Lies. Not a month ago my father made her go for a bike ride around our home town and she claimed again that she hadn't ridden a bike in eight years. What gives, Sheila?
2. I bought my first car: a brand new 2014 black Volkswagon Jetta SE. In the '50s someone my age might be in the market to buy a house or pop out a child. To that I say, this car is my house. She doubles as my baby. Some of you may pipe up, "But, B, what about that sweet ass Pontiac Grand AM you used to cruise around Chicago in?" — well, that was a family car that first belonged to my sister and then eventually bopped around between my younger brothers and me. It was not technically mine, and I am glad for that. My taste is better.
3. I said goodbye to too many of my best friends when I left Chicago. But I did it. I hopped into my new ride and drove from Chicago to Los Angeles in five days stopping at hotels and the houses of friends and family along the way. It was my first cross country road trip without my family, my first time driving further West than Iowa, and my first time doing it with a friend.
4. We drove. We stopped in Iowa City and Des Moines, cruised through Nebraska during the day time, fully experiencing flyover land. Carly almost got a ticket from an eager police officer, and I went through my first corn maze. We went to Denver for the first time. We hiked Red Rocks. We saw dinosaur fossils. We stayed in the Unsinkable Molly Brown's Hotel. We bought trashy swimsuits from H&M and PacSun. We drove up and down a mountain by accident in Boulder, Colorado. We didn't find that waterfall hike we were looking for. We drove through the desert. We took Route 66. We heard the Barenaked Ladies song "Odds Are" 100 times. We drove and hiked through Monument Valley. We drove to the Grand Canyon. We wore our trashy swimsuits in the hot tub at the Grand Canyon Inn we stayed at near the North Rim. We were hungry, and nowhere was open. No pizza delivered, and we split a smushed granola bar for dinner. We hiked. We drove on. We drove through Arizona. We listened to the Maria Bamford special three times on Comedy Central XM radio. We crossed into California blasting the Beach Boys and then that song "California," aka The OC theme song. We unloaded my car. And I moved into my first Los Angeles apartment.
5. Only two weeks later I got my first job at my first interview and worked for a talent agency for the first time — that is until I quit that job because it was terrible. I reflected on the decision to quit with happiness. Quitting that job meant knowing that if I didn't like something I could change it, so I did.
6. During that time at that awful position, my mom came and visited for her birthday. She asked, "What's LA got anyway? Some cement and one palm tree?" I went home for Thanksgiving, then my friend (and now current roommate) Julie Pearson visited, a few days later my friend Mike Kelly visited, and after that I went home for Christmas. Everyone asked me how LA was for what seemed like hours and probably was hours. I answered with "It's great"-s and "I'm so glad I did this to myself"-s. I did it because I both believed it and wanted to believe it. Through gritted teeth and a faux smile sometimes, I said many things I didn't believe at the time, but at the end of the day, I really am glad I made this choice.
7. I decided to finally take voiceover class and now I have this great demo I made with Carroll Kimble Casting. I'm shopping it around.
8. I had my first New Years in LA at a speakeasy called No Vacancy. Aziz Ansari was there, and I felt so cool. Zooey Deschanel was at the after party, and I was drunk. I stepped on her foot, said sorry, and felt less cool.
9. I took my first UCB classes; I took my first Groundlings classes; I took my first workshops; I took a solo sketch writing class. I jumped fully in with all my clothes on. And it felt like sinking sometimes. For me, it's become increasingly evident that I love taking classes, but I haven't finished any programs here because I am so tired of improv class. So, I recently signed up for a Commercial Auditioning class for working actors with Killian Murphy at the request of my agent. Also, I have an agent. Now I consider myself a working actor.
10. I've been part of three short films since moving. I've been in a handful of sketch videos. I've done a slew of improv shows and handful of sketch shows.
11. I tried stand up for the first time, and I loved it. I need to do it more because it makes me think of the world differently.
12. I made an independent improv team with friends that I knew peripherally and now consider best. We pretend that we want to write a play together, and hopefully we will some day. Our name is Windy City Gyros, so called named after that delicious gyro restaurant in Chicago on Broadway. I once dropped off Anthony Oberbeck there after a (long pause) rehearsal instead of at his house. I remember thinking that of anyone I knew, I could certainly imagine him actually living in the basement of Windy City Gyros. I hate the name of our team, but I love us. 
13. I worked as PA on the set of "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" I had the best time, running around for 14 hours in a row, checking on things, getting stuff, gophering essentially. For a busy body like me, it was the best. Like camp, but you got paid. It was there I met my friend Tori who became my second LA roommate.
14. I wrote a two-person sketch show with David Blum in two (or was it three?) weeks called "Faithful: Relationships, Schmelationships" performed at the LA Comedy Festival. We had fun, and I love(d) writing with Blum.
15. My family took a trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and I got some of my favorite stand-up material out of it. For the first time in a decade we all vacationed together in the same spot. For eight people to somehow manage that was a trip in more than one way.
16. My dad came and visited Col, Kev and I, then we went to Santa Barbara. We rode bikes along the ocean path, went to the zoo, had a fancy dinner after my dad schmoozed the hostess into seating us, tasted so many different kinds of wine, and had a really lovely time. My dad watched me do stand up about him, and he laughed.
17. My friend Joe Underbakke came to visit and his itinerary showed me all the reasons why I love living here. Mike came to visit again, and we went to our first Dodgers game! I proceeded to go to three more baseball games this year, none of which were White Sox games, which was sad, but in the end just fine. (Angels with Blum, Dodgers again with my indie team, and a Rangers game when I went to Dallas to visit my brother, Sean.)
18. I went to visit my brother Sean in Dallas when he was working there on a contract job. It was the first time I ever spent more than a few hours one-on-one with Sean. We went to the Stock Yards, I sat on a bull, we got barbecue, he took me to his favorite breakfast spot: The Waffle House, we stayed at the Hilton one night, he took me to the Rangers game, picked me up and dropped me off at the airport, and we didn't fight once.
19. My friend Nancy and her daughter came to visit too, and I played hostess, showing them all the reasons I live here. My friend Carmen Christopher came, and I showed him reasons I love it here. My friend Cynthia Bangert came, and I showed her reasons she should move here. My mom and little brother Timmy came, and I unsuccessfully showed them why I love it here. 
20. I had an existential crisis for four weeks after my birthday through Independence Day. I wrote a lot. I was very unhappy, very aware of my loneliness despite surrounding myself with people, like a shell of myself. My comedy was really funny (and I don't even care if that sounds conceited), because I was really sad. It was the only thing that made me feel good.
21. It was then I wrote my first solo show: "Heart/s," which I performed in both LA and Chicago at three different theaters. So many of my friends came, so many regular audience members came, and I was so overjoyed at the outcome and their reactions. It was nothing short of heartwarmingly unreal. I'll be performing it again soon this November at Second City Hollywood, as part of a double bill with my solid friend, Rich Baker, performing his solo show, "Let's Break Up." 
22. I dated people. Now, I date one person, John, and I am so happy about that (mostly because his Pittsburgh accent provides unending opportunities for me to do spot-on impressions of him).
23. I went home to Chicago for my cousin Colleen's wedding at the end of August, and it was a much needed respite. I bought my first black tie gown for the wedding. I performed "Heart/s" at my favorite theater in Chicago, The Playground Theater. I started the show late because my dad was late, and I didn't want him to miss it. At the end he said he would have watched 15 more minutes. I smiled. I dressed up in an all gold jumpsuit and did a fun music video lip-sync to Run DMC's "Tricky" with my dear friends Emma Mullens and Jeremy Pautz. I went to Michigan to my parents cabin with one of my closest friends, Joe Underbakke, along with my mom, sister and dad. We had the sort of vacation you have when you're nine, and I was the happiest girl. I saw the new iO and the new Annoyance, and I saw how many of my friends have decided to move out of Chicago, and I saw all the ones who have decided to stay. I cleared out my childhood bedroom of everything I didn't want. I saved all of my journals, short stories, essays and plays. I found the first play I'd ever written, "It's Complicated."
24. I became part of my first iO West Harold team, Steel Shark. They are all excellent and hilarious players. It's exciting to be part of a group of people that are not just fun and talented, but are real friends. At the risk of sounding weird, I want to say this, I value them an insane amount.
25. After the success of "Heart/s" I was confident in my solo material, and so was my friend Joel Axelrod, so he booked me for the top slot of his new show at iO "Risky Business." I performed "All That Glitters," a collection of characters who all wear that gold jumpsuit from my Run DMC days. A slew of friends came. My sister Colleen and I got dinner beforehand, she watched the show, and so did John. I was nervous because, well, nerves, but it was so fun. John and I got "Good Job, Brigid" milkshakes at Mel's afterward. 
26. I joined a gym, vomited up half a bagel with cream cheese and a handful of blueberries onto one of the personal trainer's desks after pushing myself past my brink, and then somehow signed up for 7 training sessions, which have inexplicably been morphed into a recurring monthly fee. You could say I've lived to regret joining a gym. However, I've beat the system and figured out a way to get out of my (hahaha) not-so-ironclad personal training contract. I maintain I was under the influence of vomitsanity so cannot be held accountable for any of my choices. I don't know how I got home.
27. I started a new job that came in the nick of time — before the fear of being a poor starving artist became a reality, but not before I thought "Shit, I'm going to be a poor starving artist. I'm not going to be able to afford anymore shoes." I enjoy the job for now, and I'm thankful that I have one. It provides me with the chance to meet people in the industry, watch Q-and-A's with actors like Billy Bob Thornton(!), and the flexibility to go on an audition when called, plus I get to keep living in LA. Sure, I'm sitting a lot (see last blog), but it's a fair trade for now.
28. I celebrated a year of living here, and at no point did I feel like I made a bad decision in coming here. To commemorate my year, I took myself to my favorite coffee shop, Bricks and Scones, vented to my roommate about my job (I'm still a millennial artist lady, after all), and then cooked dinner and watched Tommy Boy with John.

the past/ sitting/ and the future.

You can light the fire that's in your head

Put it off, tomorrow will come instead

We don't watch the tower that tells us when

Pull the wicked flower out from its bed.

The Dodos, "Walking"

This time last year I was passing through Arizona, crossing the border into California, and eventually rolling up into Los Angeles onto Russell Avenue. A new apartment in my continued life, a new part.

One of the most generous, caring and scattered people I've ever met and loved forever, Carly Mandell, was in tow. And sweet, thoughtful, generous and gentle, Alli Arnold, was waiting with fresh homemade cookies and beers. Everything I saved from my old life was with me, ready to be part of what my parents called my "new adventure." (I originally thought that was a rather condescending sentiment, but then again, when my sister Colleen moved out here in 2008, my parents referred to Los Angeles as "Camp Hollywood" for two years.)

Three-hundred-sixty-five days isn't that many days (even if spelling it out makes it seem the opposite), and the longer I am here, the more I realize that truth. It's so funny. The first question new people ask of you tends to be, "How long have you been here?" or some derivative, and after about three months, I literally became old news; that felt so good. It feels good to be considered part of this insanely transient city where people are like migrating birds, telling themselves: "I'll give it a month," "I'll give it a year," "I'm just testing out the waters," "I'm going to see what I'm made of," etc.

But then you meet the people that are here for decades, that grew up here, that have no intention of leaving — and you're a baby to them, this one-year-old baby with chubby cheeks, a can-do attitude, and more blind faith in their talent than maybe even armed with talent. But as Steve Martin says in his book Born Standing Up, "Persistence is a great substitute for talent."

In some ways I thought moving here would change everything, but it didn't. It didn't change my drive — it encouraged it. It didn't change my energy — it grew it. It didn't change my goals — it clarified them. Making this move has made my life more pointed. I know where I want to go, and all of my choices (I hope) are evidence of that, down to the variety of jobs I've held since landing in La-La-Land.

Even now, after months of go-go-go, for the last four weeks I have spent an unusual amount of time sitting down — first in my car — then in a chair — that's in my office. So much sitting at this new job, a short term gig that will take up my days until the end of the year. It's too much sitting for me. I don't know how so many people do jobs like this for their whole lives. The only logical reason that one could do this much sitting is because it's what you have to do in order to keep living in Los Angeles because living is expensive and when you're not at this job you're trying to be a paid actor. (Run on sentence to illustrate my psychotic ability to do a million things, however frantically/poorly.)

I am so thankful that I know this won't be how I spend my life in the long run. I am so thankful that I am not content to bounce around from day-job to day-job without the hope that my persistence, talent, comedic sensibility, look, and all these things a million people have, but that I somehow illogically think will make me different — will actually make me different.

And it's fine. It's fine that this is what you have to do. People don't talk about the grind they had before they did what they want to be doing. It's the first chapter to the rest of your life. So right now, yes, it seems that most of my life is going from one sitting job to the next job I sit at, but fortunately for me, there's a smattering of film projects, sketch shows, improv performances and auditions in between. I am so thankful.

But seriously — I cannot believe how much sitting I do. (My next post will be a break down of the amount of sitting I do, if you're curious.)

So here's to being here for another year, and all the years after that.

with you.

"I can't believe how empty your house is."

"Believe it, Serge."

"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"

Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.

"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.

"Yeah," Serge said.

Repeating him, "Yeah."

"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.

"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.

Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.

You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.

 "I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.

Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.

 "Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.

Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.

"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"

"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.

There was too long of a silence.

"It's better than nothing," she said.

Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.

"You're right."

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

perspective

From my perspective this is what you did. This is what happened. And this is why it's never going to happen for us. This is why I can't love you even if by some magical circumstance you got it together, which you won't, so I won't trouble my brain anymore with nonsensical thoughts about you. Foolishness. Utterly.

There were two people who liked each other. They told each other so, and then all the trouble found its way into that. As trouble tends to do to us weak people. Into those feelings. Into those people. This is what happened.

There were two people who wanted to make it work; they thought they did. But it was one more so than the other. A slight push, then an unnecessary pull. So, to make it easier on the one who wanted it less, the one who wanted it more tried to make up for the slight. Tried to convince the other through nice words and nice thoughts and nice feelings and nice nice nice, and this made the other one only more scared and more closed off and more childlike and more more more. This is what happened.

So these two people won't make it work because one person can't carry the whole load and they shouldn't have to and they shouldn't have to feel like they have to overcompensate for the let down that became the other. And the other shouldn't say anything bad about their non-partner. Because they were never in it together. This is what happened.

The other shouldn't make them feel like they did something wrong by carrying, by wanting, by hoping, by living bravely. What is that anyway? What beautiful words to characterize the actions of another: carrying, wanting, hoping, living bravely. Those are exemplary.

Living bravely and living recklessly are not the same. If you can be brave as recklessness takes you under water, threatens you into drowning, attempting to steal your very heart — then you are more than most. And we are not the same.

From my perspective, this is what happened.

I'm glad for it.

living.

squeek
her voice squeeks
it's like a dagger
but it doesnt hurt
it's too quick
she's incredibly quick
with her words

i never thought about
it.

about poems
and music
and how they are the same

squeek
the oil
the oil is necessary

squeek
with a sharp wit
bit by bit

i never thought about it
i never knew it was there.
squeek.

i should have.
because one day
it hit me. it hit me like a dagger.
sharp.
squeek.

mouse.
in a house
it shouldn't be a surprise.
but it is.

squeek.

i'm a memory

i pace inside daily, and sprint outside come night.
i wake you up when sleeping
there's no escape
im wrapped around your throat tight

there are no words spoken
no feeling of air exiting your lips
i cannot be pinpointed.

there are blades of grass. they are lime salted
margarita mixed
you think about them in a blink
and then
they're gone

like me, but ever present.
so not.

i drive a fancy sports-car
it goes incredibly fast
so fast you might miss it

feel the blade of grass, that one
yes
that's her.
the one beneath your big toe.

can you feel it?
no

i whisper gently to you
lulling you to bed
until tomorrow when there is nothing
for you're surely dead

there are sheep above you
count them
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
you'll be up there with them
dead so quickly soon.

i live inside your heart. your brain. your candy-coated skin.
i live inside you until there's nothing.
and no one knows i was therein.

i cannot be pinpointed.
im a squiggle on your notepad in the middle of the night

count them.
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
there is no deciphering my meaning.
it'll all be over soon.

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.

Pondering loneliness

"We're all lonely for something we don't know we're lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never even met?"

- David Foster Wallace

"'Don't you want to join us?' I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted. 'No, I don't,' I said."

- Franz Kafka

For me loneliness is a toss up. I often elect for it, but when it's just happenstance it feels like emptiness. There is something nice about not having to do anything, impress anyone or go through any sort of motion, but there is so much worth in spending time with others. There's a lot to be learned, at the very least, in as much as the same way that spending time solo can. All in moderation?

I suppose in some ways a belief system involving a creator might as well be a crutch for the lonely, but what's wrong with that? Is there anything wrong with being aware that there's a reason loneliness feels like you have lost something? Then again, there's nothing wrong with taking time to check in with yourself, think, rinse and repeat.

"Who knew we'd never be younger than today?"

For the first time in a month I found myself with a spare 45 minutes and a mom on the line. God, I love her. I love that she's the one I go to for approval; I love that she has the ability to slice through my feelings like they're no big thing; I love that she can get me to admit all the things I'm stressed about, even as I know she'll throw in her unnecessary 25 cents; I love that this thought has been verbally expressed more than once: "Remember when I was in your womb?" I love her.

Periodically I'm struck by the concept of time shifting silently by. And it's almost unimaginable that some day I will look at my children and say, "You used to be literally part of me, friends." The moment I realize I'm 24 and today is literally the youngest I will ever be makes my heart race, not immediately because of stress, but because I have no idea why I am here, and I will just keep on going until I stop. And there's only so many moments left.

 

"Younger Than Today"
Ben Harper

You and I were looking at old pictures yesterday
Sitting in disbelief at how time slips away
Both at a loss for words to say, who knew we'd never be younger than today?

Foolishness protected us from the world outside
They could never come between us but we knew they'd try
We remembered living as if there were a way to forever be younger than today

Never looked at anything you didn't care to see
I was the one who wouldn't let you leave
Even though it was clear you couldn't stay
Had to try to be younger than today
Had to try to be younger than today

As we parted, you reminded me I'm alive
To remember when the stars danced just for you and I
May the shimmer of the summer always light your way and make you feel younger than today

Apartments.

When the morning is just beginning there's the all too familiar Four-Second Hesitancy. Should you get up? Probably. Will you? Probably. But do you want to? Probably not.

Apartment hunting. It's a weekend activity akin to boating or taking your children to a park. It requires preparation and, depending on how long you'll be out and how far away everything is from the other, sunscreen. I must have forgotten how miserable apartment hunting is though, because I jumped readily at the chance to relocate. And now, here I am two weeks to go until I must go, and the road to free street parking and a coffee shop within walking distance is not yellow brick paved. I probably should have taken a Four-Second Hesitancy before giving up my darling Old Town two bedroom.

Oh, well.

Five Things I Love About 1950 N. Burling St., Apt. 2R
1. Knowing what the R stands for.
2. The purple blue wall.
3. Tricking your eyes.
4. Claws on the tub.
5. Open spaces. High Ceilings. Nice Porch.

Bands. Aids.

I need to stop listening to sad music. If there's one thing that makes me feel terrible, it's a song that makes me feel too much. The Weepies are that band for me as of late. Sometimes it's Wilco. Other times it's anything instrumental. Most of the time I feel a little bit like I'm not myself. Like there's a show or front I put up, and I'm sure it's strikingly obvious at times. And I don't know if it will ever go away. Is it weird to ask, will all of life be like this? There's one thing I do love, and it's when I can just exist, not think, and just be. Yet even that can be an act, because I'm forcing myself to just quit thinking. Most of the time I'd like to take a deep breath and start over.



Antarctica, The Weepies

Left behind everything I knew
All the colors but bone-white and sky-blue
Hit the continent running
Engines were humming just to break through

Antarctica, my only living relative
Antarctica, I can't wait anymore

Under ice there's a world moving slow
Carnelian stars and the bars down below
Serve only vodka and gin
I try to stay drunk so nobody knows

Antarctica, my only living relative
Antarctica, I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore

And then there's morning
Each one feels like the first one
Ah, morning, so clean, so pure
Nothing so clear, now that I'm here

When I get back to the city
Everything's cluttered and pretty
I won't regret my return
I'll just remember the wind and the snow
And the howling so loud
That it alone drowns out the inside of me

Antarctica, my only living relative
Antarctica, I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore
I can't wait anymore

Nobel (Un)Worthy

This morning I rushed to work, though no one is ever here to scold me for being late, and obviously, I ripped open my newspaper. OK, that last part may be a lie brought on by four years of pretending I'd read the paper before my journalism classes. Seriously, I would bring in three newspapers into class with me every day and maybe read two stories in each. I guess that should have told me something about the declining state of journalism as not even up-and-coming journalists such as myself at the time could get through a full paper even once a week.

I did today, however, look at my google hot trends and found these words glaring at me: Obama Nobel Peace Prize. I'd like to make this clear: I root for our Presidents. I root for the one that everyone thinks is failing and I root for the ones I like and the ones I don't like. I root for them because I don't think talking negatively about a President does anything constructive, and I root for them because most people do better when they have some form of positive support. Deductive reasoning: I rooted for Bush to do what was right, and now I'm rooting for Obama to do what's right. I have not said by any means that either of them have in the past or will in the future do what was/is right. I just am saying that I root for them to do such.

OK. With that all out there, I do want to say that I do not think President Obama's efforts over the past nine months warrant a Nobel Peace Prize. P.O. won the award not for his actual delivery on change, but his rhetoric about change. Those are in no way the same thing. This Washington Post article makes a quality point, effectively undercutting committee chairman Thorbjoern Jagland's decision to choose P.O.:

"In response to questions from reporters in Oslo, who noted that Obama so far has made little concrete progress in achieving his lofty agenda, committee chairman Thorbjoern Jagland said he hoped the prize would add momentum to Obama's efforts. At the same time, Jagland said, 'We have not given the prize for what may happen in the future. We are awarding Obama for what he has done in the past year. And we are hoping this may contribute a little bit for what he is trying to do.'"

But the best is yet to come, when pushed further Jagland sites not those concrete progress points, no, he sites:

"Obama's speech about Islam in Cairo last spring, as well as efforts to address nuclear proliferation and climate change and use established international bodies such as the United Nations to pursue his goals."

And to bring the point home that this award now means less than it did previously:

"'Think about it, it's so post-modern: a leader can now win the peace prize for saying that he hopes to bring about peace at some point in the future,' sniped Wall Street Journal deputy editor Iain Martin in an online post. 'He doesn't actually have to do it, he just has to have aspirations. Brilliant.'"

And doesn't he have a point? We might as well be giving it away to Beauty Queens saying that they wish for world peace.

Again, I root for our Presidents because they are our Presidents. I have respect for the Office of the President of the United States, but I don't think that necessitates my support for awarding something that actually has little to back up the trophy — or I suppose prize in this case. The committee's decision to award P.O. preemptively, in my express opinion, is meaningless and now hereafter the Nobel Peace Prize will be nothing more than another novelty award that doesn't actually say or represent anything. We should call it a Grammy or a Kids Choice Award.

We Should All Be Jacks

Periodically I am vain and re-read my past posts. I think I like to check in with myself to make sure I'm not just the sounding board. However, I feel like I have been. In reading the post "Compiling the List of Yesteryear" I left the list with the possibility of gaining a position with Teach For America (TFA) and/or going to Graduate or Law School, slash getting a job.

In another previous post I mentioned that I had gotten my heart broken by various jobs and interviewees at not being selected to work at their organization, company or publication. Unfortunately for both me and TFA (yeah, I said it), I did not get the position to be the Public Affairs Coordinator. Though I would have killed at it, apparently I wasn't a "right fit." Upon asking how I could have strengthened my position or what I was missing or what they wanted and I somehow didn't deliver, they said, "No comment." This, I fear, has become a regular response from the dumper in these short-lived relationships. I've never really been privy to being in little week to month-long relationships, so I a. didn't realize I had been dumped and b. definitely didn't know how to react. My natural response was to ask why, and I guess it makes sense why they don't want to relive their thought-process. I'm convinced that for every job I didn't get over the last year, I am, indeed, the one that got away.

But, alas, I digress — going back to past posts.

I would like to say that in everything I have ever written on this blog I am and will continue to be 100 percent candid. This has, I think, gotten me in trouble, hence making the blog private. For your eyes only. The trouble with being so truthful though, is you see my direct stream of conscience. In re-reading posts I am afraid that I sound like a flake. Bouncing from idea to idea, grad to law to advertising to PR and public service to this, that and the other thing, somehow landing in a cubicle amidst the mayhem — I'm sorry.

It should also be noted that I view myself as a Jack of All Trades, as narcissistic as that may sound, which is why I jump around. I think it's an exceedingly good thing to jump around though. At this time in most of our young lives, we don't have real obligation, we don't have real needs, we just need a roof, a blanket, some food and livelihood, when it comes down to it. So, I suppose, I encourage you to re-read who you thought you were going to be last year, re-think who you are now, and make a list of all the things you want to do. (Maybe even make an outline with roman numerals, and the works.)

What's scared me most in the last few months was the fact that I thought in order to live, to do what I wanted to do, I had to compromise somewhere along the way. Eventually that may be the case, but right now, no way. It may seem like we don't have the luxury of choice, but friends, that's all we have here, and it's awesome. The thought I had constantly rotating in my mind if I didn't quit my job was, if I die tomorrow it will say somewhere in my obit that I worked in a cubicle (maybe not verbatim, I hope), but it definitely wouldn't say I was pursuing my passion — and I couldn't, then and can't now, live with that.

So, I close now by saying I still have real goals and real hopes and real things I'm pursuing, but they will change, and I will too. Graduate school or law school, living abroad, traveling often, making and donating money, giving my time, owning my life, and walking with my friends and God, learning from experience, and watching in excited anticipation for the world to throw unexpected things my way, but might be just the ticket at that very moment. I can't wait for the next exciting thing to happen, and right now I am hopeful that I'm walking more in its direct path, rather than darting left and right.

Wisdom & Working

"They weren't born like that, you know. The self-made millionaires, the now-famous who started with nothing...They learned the skills that brought them to the top, then they practiced, and through practice they changed their behavior — and their behavior made them different people; wholly different. You can be different too — any way you want to be..."

-originally from paragon-athletics

I read this in an e-mail a good friend sent to me about a month ago. Since then I have tacked it up in a cubicle, carried it around as a bookmark (in my Personal History book) and read it nearly a hundred times. It helps me.

The thing is, I've realized that through keeping an on-going list of all the books I've read this year that my most enjoyable have all been either autobiographies or biographies. Even the fiction works I've read all fall into a sort of realistic fiction where something reads as if it could have happened. But, what's more important is that it's through seeing my enjoyment in reading real-life stories that I've come to want to live a life worthy of recounting (slash I've always wanted that, just affirmation). It seems unfortunate to me that many people lead lives that (perhaps I unfairly judge) seem mundane to me. There's a sort of rhythm to life I've noticed as evidence in taking the Chicago Metra train to work every day. People sit in the same spots, wear the same self-given or office-given uniform and talk about their lives by the copy machine, how their significant other is being difficult, how they wish they could take off the afternoon, skip out early on a whim and go on a trip to Lake Geneva. I never wanted the pinnacle of my day to be leaving work.

See, I figure if you're going to be somewhere for 40 to 60 hours per week, you should like it. Maybe that's a development akin to recent years of easy-living for the under 30s, but I don't care. Why shouldn't you like your life away from and at the workplace? It seems a bizarre notion that every day, in order to be productive, has to be recounted in an excel spreadsheet with a regimen that looks, feels and is exactly the same.

Fortunately for me, I've been able to surround myself with people that have higher hopes, and more so, expectations than that — and even still the ability to carry out those passions. Thankfully after sending out an e-mail letting friends know I was leaving behind Cubicle City for some fresh air, I didn't receive any "Are you insane?" messages back. That's just a testament to good friends, good character and like-mindedness, that unfortunately many aren't accustomed to.

History (see autobiographies and biographies) has time-and-again proved that real success doesn't come from sitting on the sidelines. Waiting out the big dogs. Or sitting in a cubicle waiting for someone to give you the go-ahead. I don't want to keep my head down and act natural. There's something to be said for biding your time, but there's also something to be said for knowing what you want, and knowing what you don't want. And if you can be decisive, then be that.

Working

Here's a parred down version of excerpts from an e-mail I sent a few people regarding the day-to-day grind of my first real-real-real job working in a cubicle and my subsequent rejection of that life with built-in inner turmoil. All I can say is, time-wasting is the worst type of waste, so if you know you want to change something, get to it.

"I've just started this new job, I thought it pertinent information to let you know I am quitting.

"Yes.

"You read that correctly...

"I had been chatting with my dad [about my stint on the job so far, and really could only say],"Meh" about it. And it was bizarre. Larry, the man that just wants his kids to get jobs and fall in [the corporate] line, says to me: "Bridge, if you're not happy there, don't do it. You'll get something else." He didn't even encourage me to give it a little more time. Seriously. He went into a spiel about [his first job out of college, describing how he would] just get antsy. That's like me, antsy...

"What's weird is, I went out with some kids from [the company] the other day after work and while walking to the restaurant learned that mostly everyone who works [there] at the same position as me haven't even realized how long they've been at the company. They're content in a sort of job coma. I mean, it's got to be the benefits! I swear, none of the fun jobs offer them. My suspicion has me thinking that perhaps it's a way for the fun jobs to weed out the faint of heart. But. That said. What good is a healthy body, if it's only to serve as a shelter for a broken heart and a job comatose soul?

"Note: I am going to use it eventually in my book: My Life as a Non Journalist."

Other tales of working woes:
John

Susan

Middleness

There's even a whole website devoted to venting about your job. People need to man-up and leave what they don't like. Stagnant. Content. Interchangeable. I don't like that. If you google "I hate my job" in quotes you get over three-million sites. That's sad. It seems other people are less acclimated to life in a paid-to-go-to-a-place-that-feels-like-a-punishment.

The Second Wind

"The fatigue of the climb was great but it is interesting to learn once more how much further one can go on one's second wind. I think that is an important lesson for everyone to learn for it should also be applied to one's mental efforts.

Most people go through life without ever discovering the existence of that whole field of endeavor which we describe as second wind.

Whether mentally or physically occupied most people give up at the first appearance of exhaustion. Thus they never learn the glory and the exhilaration of genuine effort."

-from Personal History, by Katharine Graham, as quoted from her mother's diary entry.

Over the past week I have begun reading Katharine Graham's autobiography. I am going to be frank here: I love it.

For those of you who do not know, Katharine Graham (neé Meyer) was the publisher of The Washington Post for two decades, which fortune would have it were during the Watergate times. It should also be noted that perhaps I might be a teensy bit biased, as I love journalism and history more than your common 23-year-old. Anyway, the Post broke the story first, with leaks and off-the-record witnesses and eventually publishing the entirety of the Pentagon Papers. Graham's father purchased the Post in the 30s when it was a dying venture and passed it on to Katharine's husband, Phil Graham. He ran it until Katharine eventually took the reigns.

What amazes me most about Katharine herself was her genuine charismatic personality. And what further excites me is her zest for life, change in career paths, interest in politics, desire to be a mother—all of these things. I think what attracts me most is simply the notion that she is a woman I not only admire, but want to emulate. While she was handed almost everything, she never took it for granted, and she knew what to do with it once it had been given her.

Her whole life seems like a second wind after a second wind after a second wind. And it's true, most people go through life permitting themselves only the status quo, but she didn't, and I don't intend to.

Future Stories. But For Now. Just Tastes.

I've become obsessed with taking notes on various happenings.

Some include, but are not limited to:

1. It just bothers me knowing that Jimmy Fallen is out there, somewhere, making more money than me.

2. People keep telling me I'm funny—that I should be in or at least write for 2nd City. I always wondered if these people really know what they're talking about. I mean, they are the "public"—the end all, be all, deciders of who makes the cut to fame. I wonder—did anyone say these nice things to the guys current in 2nd City, performing right now in Old Town tonight? Well, did they?

3. There's a big ex-football player lip singing emphatically to himself on the El train right now. He is also doing a Sudoko puzzle and wearing a blue checked button down with black slacks. A Business Professional?

4. Claddagh rings (with the heart out) on women—What does that say to the world? Is it a plea? "Please hit on me?" Pathetic or just upfront? Is it upfront if the heart is turned in (meaning, "nah, uh, I'm taken, brother!") and sad if it's out (meaning, "I'm single! Single! Take me out! Ask for my number! I'm free tonight. I'm free every night!")

5. Vaginis. This guy's last name is Vaginis. I'm thinking: Vaginis Monologues, a hit television show where at the beginning and end of each episode someone from the Vaginis Family has to share a monologue of what happened to them that day, so starting and ending an episode. This is brought on by Michael P. Vaginis, a guy who unknowingly is being made fun of by myself and my coworkers at Bar/Bri LSAT testing facility. We are currently scanning Scantrons. That's right. Someone has to make sure these lawyers in waiting have filled in their bubbles correctly. And. Yes, that's us. We get to read everyone's last names and first names. We get to poke fun at each of them. There have been a lot of "Butts" so far. I should try and Facebook Michael P. Vaginis.

5. Pretty in Pink. Ducky got the short end of the stick. Except at the end when the pretty girl asked him to dance. They should have made a movie about how in the end Ducky was alright. Titled: Ducky: The After Party.

6. Weird names: Blaine Doyle.

7. Coworkers for the week: Russell (Italian/Black female, obsessed with diversity and EOE, helps companies with diversity training, has an excuse for every single moron who has incorrectly filled out bubbles: ie. maybe they are foreign, maybe they are dyslexic, maybe they are blind (for real), maybe, well, maybe Russell, maybe they're just dumb and can't read.), Janie (a college girl, very sweet, goes to Gaucher College in Baltimore, lives with her sister in Chicago during the summer, temps for fun/money, and constantly makes me sing "Janie's Got a Gun" in my head, all day), Todd (an actor from Indiana, 26, says mildly dramatic things when explaining how something made him feel, i.e. "That kills my soul" in reference to the film Requiem for a Dream), DC (who's real name is Derek, he works as a financial guy for Goldman Sach's usually. Right now, I don't know why he's temping. His wife is his best friend, he says that casually and sweetly causing the women in the crowd to wish for something more. He's sort of a toned down Lionel Richie. He sort of looks like him and has an intense mustache that makes me laugh when I look at it), and then there are two forgettable others (1. Jamie, a beautiful, young black girl who used to work for I think it's AT&T or something like that, and the other is a K-5th grade teacher named Kristen from Naperville. Both are mid-20s).

8. Both my parents, but my dad more so than my mother, want me to appreciate the art of creation, but not to be myself a creator. Actually, that goes not just for me, but for all my siblings. It's weird, because we all learned instruments growing up, but were no Jackson 5. We all learned just enough to know how to read notes, appreciate music and the like, but were never encouraged to write our own stuff or seriously pursue music or theater as sincere job options. Funny. My oldest brother Larry took some acting classes with Improv Olympic and performed in Tony and Tina's Wedding, much to our parents' chagrin. He works at an accounting firm during the day and wishes his life were different. Now my sister is in LA in the process of gaining a BFA in film & screenwriting, my younger brother Timmy writes his own music, Kevin is transferring to USC to finish college with a degree in Screenwriting. The sad thing is, and probably the most selfish, is I was the creative, theatrical, musically talented Marshall growing up. Maybe I just thought I was. I regret playing field hockey in high school in a lot of ways. I should have done the plays. I was good at acting, always have had stage presence and can sing. Now I'm playing the banjo, and jamming more with Timmy. I've seen three musicals in the last month, and when I'm not seeing a musical or play, I'm watching a movie or reading.

9. I interviewed for two jobs this week and have another tomorrow. The one Monday was to be an Assistant Building Manager. That's right. The other is to be a Paralegal at a Home Tax/Mortgage Law Firm. To say the least: these jobs stomp creativity out, are dull, are monotonous, would in fact "kill my soul." I have another tomorrow with TravelZoo to be an Assistant Producer, which I would kill at! Should be more exciting. Is it weird that today I'm wishing I had gone out to audition for American Idol. I don't want to be on a show like that. I love to sing and perform, but I don't want to be like that. Tonight I saw Million Dollar Quartet, a story about Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley, all involved with Sam Phillips' Sun Records in Nashville. I want what they had. I told my mom that she raised kids that all, for some odd reason, want to be famous. I think it's because we all want to be recognized. Maybe it's a big family thing.

10. Fame: Karaoke. When I told my mom about how her kids want to be famous. We just want something more. Competition. Fame is weird. A kid who took the BAR practice test's name was Fame. His/her parent was dreaming big. Kevin, my younger brother, said to me while watching Harry Potter the other night, "I could have done that role. I would have rocked at it. You know, Brigid, his dad is a major movie producer in London," all in reference to Daniel Radcliff.

11. Brian McKnight. Think of "Deep Quotes" of the day. Turn them into song lyrics. Send the finished songs to him for him to either listen to softly OR re-record giving you full song-writing credits. Did you know, "Blue Suede Shoes" sung by Elvis Presley on the Johnny Carson show, was actually meant to be sung by Carl Perkins who also wrote the song. He was supposed to perform it, but on his way to New York got in a big car accident preventing him and his band from arriving. Tough break.

12. I've fallen in love X times this year. With advertising, PR, and education. And I always am in love with music. And Each time these genres break up with me. Each time I get an interview and they turn me loose before giving me a real shot, I'm left hopeless. I'm like the retarded girl at school who can't figure out why the captain of the football team doesn't love her. Tough break. Me and Carl Perkins. Luckily for Perkins, he was a multimillionaire, got to play rockabilly music for life (my favorite kind of music) and to boot was inducted not only into the Rock and Roll, the Rockabilly, and the Nashville Songwriters halls of fame, but was also a Grammy Hall of Fame Award recipient.

13. The phrase: "I've got a taste for...," "What do you have a taste for?," etc, etc, is purely a Chicago thing. No one else says it. Most people are just upfront and say, "What do you want to eat?" Noted.