Quarter life crisis

Sorry I haven’t hit you in a while wordpress. I started a bunch of different blog posts regarding the most pressing matter in my life right now, but I’ve never had the heart to post them. I’m going through a crippling quarter life crisis, and basically can’t stop worrying about a whole host of different things.

The ‘quarter life crisis’ is composed of the unsettling emotions and realizations that come with ‘living in the real world’ for the first time. Here are a few of the specific issues according to the wikipedia page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quarter-life_crisis

  • confronting one’s own mortality
  • insecurity concerning ability to love oneself, let alone another person
  • insecurity regarding present accomplishments
  • disappointment with one’s job
  • boredom with social interactions
  • financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unexpectedly high cost of living)
  • a sense that others are doing better than oneself
  • frustration with social skills

I could write for miles on each one of these bullets and how these worries have affected my life, but I’ll spare you my angsty pain .. for now.

In all fairness, the quarterlife crisis may just be a euphemism for plain old textbook definition depression in my case, but it doesn’t really matter what the hell you call it.

I’ve hit the crisis a little bit early because I’ve been working full time at an 8 to 5 job that I absolutely hate. The most difficult part is that working a shitty job is the only permanent part of my life I’ve ever experienced. This is what I will be doing until I die. Every day. 

Yes, yes not every job is shitty. I know people have jobs that don’t make them feel utterly useless and miserable. Unfortunately, no one in my office is shows me otherwise. Part of the crisis is caused by worrying what job I can do that won’t make me feel awful all the damn time.

And I’ve heard plenty of bullshit about this from both sides. One too optimistic: Do what you love!! Find your passion!

Sorry, but for the vast vast vast majority of people, their job is not their love in life. And that’s just fine. Not the vast vast vast majority of people are miserable…right?

Anyway, I really think the chances that you enjoy your career nearly as much as your life outside of your job are slim to none. People that love their jobs more than their families are scary anyway. Who wants to be married to the guy that turns down a home cooked meal and a blow job because he’s having just a grand old time at the office. Not me. Especially because that grand old time is probably with his secretary, not with his work, because people that LOVE their jobs don’t exist.

On the other hand, I’ve heard people say that you don’t really need to like your job. Do your passion at night!

Well, I hate to break it to you, but by the time I’m home and have cooked and eaten dinner its around 7:30ish. Throw in a shower and a phone call to the boyfriend and its time to go to bed. Not a lot of time to build my model airplanes, huh?

If you really hate your job, guess what. You really hate your life because that’s what you spend most of your life doing. So I think it is really important to like your job. I don’t expect my job to be my soul mate and sole purpose on earth, but I really want to like it.

I’ve been torn between about four paths since middle school.

  1. Doctor: I’ve always been strong in biology and the other sciences, and I can see myself doing gritty blood and guts work. I thrive in a conflict and stress heavy environment. I don’t exactly love people, especially old people, retards, and children.
  2. Lawyer: Both my parents are lawyers. It’s like an office job except with more conflict, and possibly exciting courtroom work.
  3. Writer: I’d love to just write novels for a living, but I also like food and shelter.
  4. Academic: I study Philosophy in school. I love it, but the job prospects are pretty fucking awful.

As of right now I’m leaning towards the Doctor. But oh wait. I haven’t taken chemistry or volunteered at planned parenthood or any of that shit. Luckily I can get a postbac. I love school, so that’s not a huge problem, but it will be quite painful on the bank account.

People have discouraged me from being a doctor because I’m not the most personable bitch in the world. In fact, it seems like I don’t like people much at all.
Well. I find many people irritating. But I really am fascinated by the human body. Visiting a doctor ten years ago may have involved a lot of small talk, but that’s changing in an effort to increase efficiency. And let’s face it. Who really cares if a doctor is a brilliant conversationalist anyway? Nobody.

For example, my dermatologist is renowned as one of the best in the country.  She has to beat patients away with a stick. And the kicker is she doesn’t accept insurance. She makes you pay sticker price, cash or check only, and then you have to deal with your insurance company if you want a rebate.

But she’s a bitch. She’s harsh and very short with people. If you start making small talk, she’ll shush you so she can concentrate. But everyone sees her because she’s the one that can catch your cancer, and can tell you what sunscreen to buy and can give you the best deets on the latest facial injections.

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Cornell Pictures

A couple of my friends have these huge clunky DSLR cameras. They’re ugly as shit, but take glorious photos. As much as I love violating copy right law, I’d like to start taking my own professionalish shots, rather than swiping them off of Google images.

I got a great deal on ebay for a dlsr and now its time to retire my old point and shoot. But before I do that, I have to showcase these cute pics of Cornell I took as a freshman before I became jaded and disenchanted with the Cornell experience.

West-facing View from Thurston Bridge (pre-fences) in the fall.

The back of Lincoln hall on the Arts quad. Nice socks.

A.D. White Library

Inside of Olin Library with a view of the Arts Quad <3.

North-facing view of ho plaza and McGraw Tower. In all honesty I’ve gotten really sick of the horrendously out-of-time and out-of-tune chime concerts, but every once in a while they’ll brighten my day by playing a phantom of the opera number.

Olin Library. The 1960’s were a great time for architecture, huh?

Goldwin Smith Hall and a lovely orange crane.

Next weekend I’m going to DC, so expect more photos in the near future!

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Hopsy Goodness

I’ve never understood why wine is the drink of sophisticated, cultured, worldly individuals and beer is the down-home, philistine choice.

In the alcohol family, wine is the weathy aunt wearing a monocle who listens to Beethoven music, who goes to the theahtah on weekends, and who ‘summers’ at Martha’s Vineyard.

Beer is the patriotic deadbeat redneck dad who beats his wife, drives a tractor and watches NASCAR.

I suppose that makes Malt liquor the retarded cousin who works at the local grocer’s shop and always puts heavy items such as milk and grapefruit on top of the damn eggs hopelessly crushing them into an orange mucilaginous glob which proceeds to engulf  your whole bag of groceries and leak out onto the leather seats of your car which in time breeds an odious vomiting inducing aroma in your beloved, red, Maserati.

The two former stereotypes are completely unfair. I guarantee you I could pair beers with a fine meal to fantastic effect. With my pairings you would never need to bullshit to extreme levels about how the chestnut aroma, and notes of Cinnamon in the Riesling counterbalance the saltiness of your Pavé de Thon Grillé.

Beer is better than wine for many reasons.

  • First and foremost I prefer it, so everyone should.
  • Beer came before wine and is therefore superior to wine via ‘I was here first’ logic.
  • Beer has a lower alcohol content than wine, which means you can guzzle more of it without getting wasted of your sorry ass. It also means that drinking 11 beers will leave you less hungover than if you had drunk 11 glasses of wine, because beer hydrates you more! (dehydrates you less, actually).
  • Beer is cheaper
  • Beer is never aged the way wine can be. This means that beer is more Eco-friendly. It also means that one excellent brew can easily be replicated over and over.
  • Beer is refreshing and has bubbles. The head is the best part. (on that note, NEVER pour your beer ‘on the diaganol’ to avoid getting a head on the beer. That foam is beautiful, fun and delicious! ‘Irritating’ the beer helps the flavor come out.
  • Beer is chock full of phytoestrogens. I’ll toast to anything that will tone down your raging testosterone. Frankly women are awesome, and most men would be better people if they had more estrogen in them 😉

So please. Do me a favor and don’t act all high and mighty because you drink wine with dinner and I drink beer. They’re both delicious, and we’re both on the road to alcoholism.

My favorite beer! Mmm, wheaty

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The Artist’s Plight

How can you choose between a steady paycheck and investing your soul into creating something great?

I won’t even bother going off on the cliched ‘follow your passion’ bullshit. It is acutely more complicated than that.

There’s no reason that a normal job can’t be immensely rewarding. Lots of commonplace, plain jobs help others. Some occupations are satisfying because they take full advantage of natural skills or allow achievement through hard work. If I’m fucking great at analyzing markets, then being on wall street could make me just chipper.

There’s also the simple consolation of security – money every single week.

Doesn’t that sound great?

Even if you don’t love your mundane cubicle job, there’s the priceless assuagement of being able to go home and pursue other interests – no strings attached. You can sketch, or blog, or write music without agonizing over if you’re talent is enough to pay the bills. You can enjoy your hobbies rather than depending on them. You can avoid coming to bitterly resent what you once loved in the event that your restaurant, paintings, poetry, CDs, and books don’t make bank.

Worse still, It’s not like making art is easy. A staggering amount of labor goes into anything remunerative. It is so incredibly disheartening when your work doesn’t measure up to your own standards. The heaps of rejection that come with being an artist can easily murder the prospects of ‘loving what you do’.

I hate mentioning the ‘e’ word, but I can’t help but feel stiffed. I keep waiting for people to start spending money like its 1996  (props Clinton) so I can feel less terrified of taking risks but it just doesn’t happen.

I worry the only reason I want to be an author is because if I’m successful I could strike it rich.

No matter how much I like my job and my art, I don’t think I’ll ever like it as much as a dinner at the local brasserie, a trip to the art museum, reading a nice book, and going out for some theatre or art house cinema. I like enjoying art more than making it, so maybe I should stick with a steady job that will ensure I can enjoy it.

Despite all that, my post graduation plan is still to move to Seattle, wait tables and write my heart out for as long as I can.

Speaking of art, here is some fantastic sculpture:

cereal killer

More by Terry Border   http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/terry-border-makes-everyday

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My mother came to lovely Ithaca to bestow some sorely needed mobility. I want to explore everything there is to see around here while the getting is good, but frankly the buses just don’t cut it. Last time I took the bus to Wegman’s, a revoltingly creepy (and I assume homeless) man holding a fishing pole took the pleasure of staring at me the whole ride.

At first, I looked casually out the window, feigning casual disinterest in the whole situation. All the while, uncomfortable worry inched through me. But of course since I was wondering whether or not he had ceased staring I kept glancing at him every few milliseconds, which just egged him on more. Shit! He can smell my fear like a god damn shark or horse or something. Then my years of pretentious horseback riding finally came in handy.

What do you do with an aggressive pony? Show him who’s boss! So I got up the courage, sat up straight in my seat, and stared him down for as long as I could. And trust me, this was no ‘come hither’ extended stare that you shoot at the hottie across bar when you’re hoping for a sloppy Thursday night shag. This was a glare of pure menace.

Sure enough, he averted his eyes to the ground after a few seconds of pain induced by my biting eyes.

So I did my shopping feeling extremely over confident and strong. Ithaca homeless people? Feh. They can’t touch this. As I walked out to the bus stop I saw two rough looking -and dare I say attractive- young hooligans walking opposite of me to the grocery store.

‘SEXAY MAMA’ said the first one. I then gave him my hard look of disgust. But of course this time, I was hiding a smile. Every time I’ve been cat-called I feel obligate to act offended. A lady doesn’t accept lewdity (yes, I made that word up) of such sort. But those kinds of come-ons make me giddy! What compliment could be more sincere than one from a stranger that has nothing to gain from me. Well, I guess he may think a catcall could let him access my garden of eden, but that’s just crazy!

But after they passed me, I heard his friend distinctly say ….‘Eh’.

And this was not the Canadian Ehpronounced ai. This was the nasal ‘eh’ always accompanied by an indifferent shrug.

Dammit Ithaca! Why do you build me up, buttercup baby, just to let me down?

Classic soul music aside, I nursed my bleeding ego and went home swearing to never take the bus again.

This was actually feasible because My mom was supposed to bring up my car and bike for the summer. Conveniently, my car came down with some steering issues. My Mom had already purchased her plane ticket home, and couldn’t bear to listen to my cacophanous complaining for another week. So she brought her car up. Her darling sports car. She loves that car much more than she ever loved me. I’m an only child of a widow, so trust me when I say she reeeheeeheeeally loves that car.

Now that I have this monster, I am terrified of damaging it. Honestly, cruising around town strikes more anxiety in me than that damn homeless guy on the bus.

More scarring still, she made me drive the god forsaken thing around with her in the car shouting orders and corrections at me. I was so nervous I was shaking. This made me weave the car, garnering even more shouts from my mother.

This gaudy bright red car is just taunting the local homeless population and delinquents to piss on her doors, slash her tires, spit on her mirrors and do whatever harm they can to her. I’m sure any damage will somehow be my fault. Accordingly I have to pony up the deneiro for a covered spot. It’s about half my rent. Ouch. The renting company wants the money for the whole year NOW. My metaphorical balls are in a vice.

Needless to say, I hate this stupid car.

My forest Green ’96 Lincoln town car (his name is Alfred)on the other hand, is a beloved, dear friend. I got pulled over by a fat power junkie known as a ‘cop’ for the first time in that car, I had bad sex on prom in that car, I learned how to tap the cars in front and behind while parallel parking and then covertly drive away in that big-ass-boat of a car!

But seriously. I would give my first born child (saves me a trip to Planned parenthood!) to get that car to run like when we first bought it.

It’s funny how easily Humans are tricked into bonding with inanimate objects. We’re so silly!

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I’m not much on rear window ethics

It’s official, I’m a Peeping Tom. 

Lat night I was laying in bed feeling extremely self-satisfied, probably unfairly so. I upgraded my RAM, sent some unwieldy peep toe leather heels back to Zappos for a refund, and even managed to abate my arduous black forest into a dainty runway. I was still feeling the buzz of my celebratory margarita(s) and didn’t want to waste it on sleeping. So I roused myself out of bed and lo and behold, I discovered my room has an excellent view to a whole host of windows belonging to the apartment building across the street.

I innocently scanned the scene. I saw some fellow getting his midnight cereal and ganja fix, a sloppy girl giving thanks to the great porcelain god as she bids adieu to her supper, some guy in front of a computer, one hand on the mouse the other on…well all normal occurences for the average college housing unit. Bet then I saw some movement, but it is difficult to make out because the window is cloudy with dirt.

I spied a petite Asian girl with jaw length black hair merrily bouncing away on top of a lover.


At that point, I make the natural choice to pull up a chair and enjoy the show.

You have to understand, I’ve never want to break the law. But sometimes I am simply given no other choice. The eye is drawn to movement, right? I couldn’t help but watch the paroxysmal fits of movement of an anonymous couple in the act. Just like couldn’t help but partake in the forbidden fruit of a sixteen year old football star my senior year of high school. The eye is drawn to muscular machismo and a seven inch penis, right?

It would also be much easier to follow the law if breaking it didn’t feel so damn exhilarating. And you know it does. Even if you’ve never broken the law (and yes underage drinking does count, so there aren’t many of you), you have to admit that being bad feels really quite good, paradoxical as it may be.

I am now a statutory rapist, underage drinker and a voyeur. Perfect. That’s when I notice that the female keeps making these odd lunges forward. But these reaches are not for the John (or shall I say Janguo). Her attention is clearly focused elsewhere.

That’s when I realized elsewhere is another cock.

She is leaning forward to give lip service to another Janguo! This is worth staying up late for. God bless them!

It made me wonder. How exactly does an organic threesome occur? I’m truly thankful I’m not close enough to any girl friends for us both to want to crown the same conquest..at the same time..  So I sit casually munching on wheat thins and guacamole while observing the sacred menage a trois, when things begin to wrap up. And you’d never guess my surprise when the ‘female’ stood up, and commenced to fuck Janguo doggy style.

Oh my.

I wasn’t kidding when I said the window was dirty.

Also in other news my lovely boyfriend is coming to visit! Yay!

Uhh, anyone have an ID I (and/or he) could borrow for Sake bombs? 😉

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You shallow, rich, disgusting east coasters have finally gotten to me. I swore to myself I would never pick up a hint of your nails on chalkboard accent. I assumed I would never lose my genuine sympathy for others (a normal phenomenon in all other parts of the country), and most of all I promised to myself that I would never succumb to the subpar, showy, ubiquitous, over-rated, ‘chic’, Jappy, over-priced, snobby, and just plain obnoxious fashion trends of the east coast.. Wrong.

Before I came to Cornell, I had never worn a pair of leggings. And if I had worn them, I wouldn’t have done so without a decent shirt to cover up by voluptuous buttocks cheeks. People don’t do that in that real life let alone in Chicago. But, my quality derriere is quite dear to me and I just relish any opportunity to put it on full display. Jeans and dresses just can’t do that the way a nice pair of black spandex and cotton can. Indeed, I am now a ra-ra enthusiastic proponent of the legging. I also have come to love my rubber Hunter boots, my cushy (sorry sheep) uggs and my shiny iphone. (At least I don’t have a blackberry – I’m not that dumb).

But, the two things that I promised myself to abstain from have finally taken the last remnants of my east coast snob virginity: The longchamp bag and the Sperry.

I really don’t like ‘boat shoes’, hell I don’t like boat culture. Oh, and yes, people do boat in Illinois, there’s a big fucking lake with waves and everything, but people there don’t feel the need to wear ugly shoes with big nasty topstitching designed specifically for use on your daddy’s yacht.

So why did I get them?

Well, a couple weeks ago it was raining a lot, but it was also hotter than hell in a handbasket. I needed a shoe that would be okeydokey in the rain and that wasn’t a big fat boot that would make my precious toesies sweat. So I got these:


These aren’t as bad, but I still feel the tinsiest bit of heavy guilt wearing them. I can almost hear them squeaking ‘sellout!!’ with each waterlogged step.

My longchamp bag is quite a different story altogether. A story of true love if you will. I did quite a bit of hunting because I did not want a 160 dollar nylon sac that EVERYONE has. In Illinois people carry around varied purses from many different labels. Shocking right? But I needed a new bag that could tote around all of my shit. So I did quite a bit of hunting and had my eye on this bag for quite some time:

Oooh yeah

I really really love this. He’s really quite the bad boy in town. Sexy, rich, and great in the sac (Hah!). But I thought about for a while and I realized that  this giy might actually be a longchamp knockoff masked by a Marc Jacobs label.. Just a poser! A poser that’s twice as much! So eventually I gave into my pride and decided to give the boy next door longchamp a shot. And I adore it! The bag looks small on my arm, yet is surprisingly rooms, the straps are long but not cumbersome, and the material is durable, yet looks cute.   Believe me, I cherish this bag more than the items inside. I understand this is rather perverse, but hey I have said this many times and will say it again. I’m a pervert. But I understand completely that my love of le longchamp (pronounched longshamp people, not CHAMP) makes me a sheep slut. A whore to following local conventions. A yachting, toting, ugsing, wannabe poser prep. But don’t worry midwesterners some things will NEVER change: That gawd awful tawk will never stop hurting my ears, I will always slow down when a pedestrian is walking in front of my automotive vehicle. Periods of silence less than five seconds will never make me blurt out the next insignificant thought in my head to ease the ‘tension’, and last but not least I will never think I am superior to those around me… *adjusts collar* 😉 Love you!

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