I had to hide this. But I did it for love.

At the risk of leading you to navigate away from this post, dear reader, I'm going to tell you the end of this story: he jumps off a boat. Now that you know the ending, perhaps you'd like to hear how this story begins, or at least what idiot jumped off which boat and why.

When Jessica Goes Aboard, Anything Goes.

After my first day in my new internship at Skybox, I raced home from Anaheim (congratulating myself on making excellent time) to get dressed for my third and final Student Worker formal. I knew that I would be cutting it close, nearly sober when getting on the bus to head to the boat(see? The pieces are coming together!) but I squeezed myself into a dress, tangled my hair in a knot, and slapped on some serious eyeshadow in record time and hoped for the best. It wasn't until I saw her stumble on the sidewalk that I knew I was in for a treat.


The Cryer
I won't tell you her name for legal purposes, but it rhymes with Shmegan. Shmegan is a chronic cryer, generally for no particular reason other than she's tired, drunk, and someone is looking at her. Our first encounter was when she ran out of the Student Worker dance screaming, crying, and waving her arms to hit any obstructions out of her way as she sprinted across campus because a girl in the bathroom told her that her parents probably don't love her. From that point on, I decided a party without her was an opportunity for hilarity missed. As a girlfriend of the Idiot, she is guaranteed at every Student Worker event; this particular night, I fed her a few beers and waited, chin resting in my hands, eyes bright with anticipation. She stumbled on the sidewalk while shouting "YOU CAN BE MY DATE _______, I GUESS I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND." This was said several times, hoping to find any ears which would pay her the attention she so strongly demanded.

The Idiot

He is a fellow Student Worker, and a fan of raves. I like the kid; the fact that he's dumber than a box of rocks doesn't mean I don't enjoy groaning at him with alarming frequency. He's a harmless idiot, muscled and tanned and privileged in all the right proportions. He is in love with The Cryer. And she's in love with him. And so our story begins.

At Least Let "Party in the USA" Conclude!

The boat was unexceptional and wonderful in its intimacy and confusing "Tiki" theme. The enormous accomplishment of 5 girls crammed in a bathroom no bigger than a single stall, not only peeing together, but comforting drunk tears, drinking warm beers out of dented cans, and wallowing in collective low self esteem paled in comparison to what was to come. The dance floor, packed with youths grinding against each other, ebbed and flowed with the tide, and the lounge upstairs envied its liveliness, as its only company was The Cryer. There she sat, curled up with her knees to her chin as she stared wistfully out the window, sobbing and checking over her shoulder to make sure someone was watching her. With little interest shown, her sobs grew more desperate, more violent, and more contrived. Noticeably absent was The Idiot.

I was putting my hands up, they were playing my song, and the butterflies were flying away when the music stopped and the lights went out; the boat started to circle sharply and, upon looking out the window, several life rafts could be seen bobbing in the water, empty and useless. The flickering lights from the Sheriff boat told us something was serious, and Miley's comforting voice had been choked off, leading us to panic all the more. There, in the water, was the Idiot, being pulled forcefully from it, clutching two bright glowsticks which he had held on to with an Olympian determination. The Cryer, gleeful at the opportunity to be The Concerned Girlfriend, cried louder while occasionally moaning The Idiot's name.

Once safely on the boat, the formal was over in just under an hour and we were heading back to shore; Party in the USA remained paused in its second chorus. The Idiot was cuffed and released, avoiding jail time with a $1000 fine, and as he stood, pathetically dripping from the clothes which clung to his childlike body, The Cryer ran to him. She sobbed, her large eyes clouded with tears and unfurling plastic eyelashes, as she struggled to decide whether she was angry or relieved. At this scene, I fell from my seat to the floor with laughter; I have the bruises to prove it.

The story will live in infamy: our shortest formal in history, a narrow escape from jail, two buffoons tailor-made for one another, sobbing and dripping in each others' arms as they shared this harrowing near-death experience. Later, when asked why he jumped off the boat, The Idiot sincerely responded, "I did it for love." Yes, he would even do that.

Someday, they will likely die in an accidental suicide pact. Until then, I will continue to enjoy their love for my own selfish entertainment.

So What Now?

Above all else that plagues my generation, the ambivalence between instant adulthood and prolonging adolesence seems to be more and more relevant as I am bombarded by pictures of weddings and drunken exchange parties in an endless flow of facebook reminders. It seems as though my age group is torn between the anxiety of needing answers and the lack of expectations for themselves. Either way, absent is a clear perspective on what it is we're supposed to be doing with our lives.



Where have all the grown-ups gone? Why is it that when I look at wedding photos now, everyone seems like they're playing dress-up (and for some reason all have the same hideous white prom dress parading down the isle like a Sears quinceañera ad) and the word "Divorce" looms in the background whenever I stare at the teal bridesmaid dresses for too long? And when it isn't a wedding photo, it's a dark party filled with red cups and "sexy kitten" costumes that eventually morph into mounds of empty bottles and smeared mascara. Behold my present; by not having the desire to frantically search for tule cocktail dresses and my sincere dread of wearing white in a room full of distant relatives, I am in the limbo of Growing Older.



When I played house as a child, I fantasized about arguing over bills, furiously scribbled "paperwork" while my pretend live-in boyfriend cooked dinner, and created a long-standing battle with my imaginary landlord, Ophelia. My bizarre childhood fantasies aside, I've always looked forward to being a part of that exclusive club where grown-ups talk and drink and have real problems and real accomplishments. Mostly, I've always looked forward to the life that I don't know about yet and sharing it with everyone I consider special. Pessimistic though I may be, I have so much to look forward to, it terrifies me that people my age want everything "figured out."



We learn through experience, and our suffering through life is what makes it meaningful and exciting. Without the struggle of trying to create a person out of the characteristics we've accumulated over the years, we would be very boring people, and in a lot of cases, we are. Who wants to cut their lives down to isolated stages? Birth, school, marriage, job, kids, retirement, and death are pretty grim chapters in a story repeated so many times it's faded into blank pages, leaving us to recite those lines we know so well. Maybe now that we don't need to have everything figured out by age 23, we should fill in those pages as we go along and trade in that boring fairy tale for some interesting stories.



And what about the "Neverland" mentality? College is both the prolonging of adolescence and the preparation for adulthood; holding on to one and fighting the other negates anything you might gain from the entire experience. We shouldn't cower behind the idea that drinking to blackout every night is paramount in college life, but then again I would never say no to a beer with my friends, especially on a Tuesday night. Exploring every possibility for happiness makes room for the acceptance of the rough parts of life that we need to get through in order to find it; our gradual maturation isn't the result of some cosmic alarm clock, it develops as we become ready. We need not fear the limbo of Growing Older because the best is yet to come, but we need to get to it, not the other way around.



I dread turning 30 and having to tell that little girl in the fictional apartment that she actually settled for a banker she didn't love, or that she still hasn't entered into a real career or relationship; I never want to be so afraid of life that I sell it short and disappoint my 8 year old self. Mostly I am afraid for my friends who either need answers or are desperately hiding from the responsibility of getting them; I don't want to do this whole grown-up thing alone. But then again, I know that they need me too, and being there is a part of getting older and wiser. For now, I guess I'll dress up and play guest at all those weddings and keg parties, sipping my beer and happily resting somewhere in between the time when imaginary life fades and being a grown-up finally kicks in. For now, at least.

The Year of Living Bravely: Part 1

I thought it began with "Andrew." I thought the thrill of a secret and passionate physical relationship was the first chapter in my year of Living Bravely; I was wrong, it was only the gunshot at the starting line.

Being with Andrew was an adventure, but it was one I've experienced a good five times, and I think that's enough. What he offered was a new perspective: honesty within a hopeless relationship made me a little more hopeful for those to come after it. He, as it turns out, is just as full of shit as anyone else, but I don't begrudge him that. Every person has the right to be full of shit because we don't know anything. Acknowledging that you don't have all the answers right now is the first step to finding those answers. Which brings me to the first milestone in my Living Bravely adventure: Deconstructing the F-Word.

Last year, my service organization held a panel in which four professors (all women) discussed the implications of being a feminist within the academic world. Although I loved hearing what they had to say, the event was not completely successful; the speakers had no guidlines, no concrete issues to discuss, and the turn out was about thirty people, with a lone male sitting in the back slinking sheepishly into his seat as he came to realize this discussion didn't involve an obscenities, as advertised. And I was disappointed. I talked to a few friends and ended up having a long discussion about the panel and what it had changed about our views when I realized that we hadn't broken any new ground for others, we were already self-proclaimed feminists who didn't need any convincing.

So I pondered. For months. This morning, I read an article about Michelle Obama and the perceptions of black women in America, Aunt Jemima stereotypes and all. I started thinking about the ideology of Women of Color feminism, and just couldn't take the silence around campus anymore. I started planning. And emailing. And waiting.

So for now, I'm just checking my email obsessively, hoping for any response from the 20 professors I contacted. I finally feel like I'm practicing what I preach, and I can't wait to see what happens. Stay tuned.

Things I'm Over, and I Think You Are, Too

Facebook "Gangsta Face" Pictures: I get it. You're a fun-loving, chill person who is-- might I add-- HILARIOUS. That sideways "Peace" sign and those pursed lips tell everyone that you're not afraid to be silly and that you don't take yourself too seriously. Really? Because it sort of seems like you've stolen this (not that funny to begin with) idea from EVERYONE else on Facebook, which, in effect, has diluted that meager bit of originality you were striving for. But surely, this does not apply to you; after all, you wear a bandana head scarf.

BANDANA HEAD SCARFS: Unless your name is Axel or you're the frontman of a band with a name like "Acid Love" or "Karcass," you have no reason nor right to lay claim to this trend. The bandana is strictly reserved for hard working mechanics (which you're probably not) and aging glamrockers who are despereate to hide their botched hairplugs. So knock it off.


TEXTING HIPSTERS: You're at a small venue (Knitting Factory or the like) to watch a band so unknown you even YOU don't know who they are (this is probably more true than my humor is intending to be) and you're dressed to the nines in a straw fedora and deep v-neck, maybe even wearing denim rompers and keds. So what could possibly stimulate the Hipster brain's pleasure centers any more than this virtual heaven? Being so indifferent to the scene that you text your other hipster friends throughout the entire show that you paid a whole $12 to get into. Not to worry, that ticket stub is totes making its way onto your bulletin board so that when people see it and ask about the show, you can proudly say, "it was so whatevs; everybody listens to them now, totally overrated." Congrats, hipster scum, you win again.

There are infinitely more items to add to this list, but for now, I am le tired.

Regarding Independence Day

There are far too few days of the year that I actually look forward to. Christmas used to be my number one; Santa and I had an understanding that as long as I didn't kill, rape, or pillage, I was to receive at least a few Barbies and a couple new sweaters. However, as I got older, I quickly realized something; I have far too high of expectations for my mother's taste in clothes (although, there is something to be said about Jackie Blatter's love of matching outfits and her inclination to buy them for me...I just luurve that Jackie Blatter). Easter used to be fun; new dress, See's candies, and money hidden in eggs. Sure, I didn't know the connection between Christ rising from the dead and a giant rabbit that hides colored eggs around my house, but hell, I was too far into my diabetic coma from my easter basket to really give a shit.

Mostly, holidays have revolved around eating too much and sitting around while we watch the kids play and enjoy themselves far more than all of us adults on the couch wondering if its too rude to unbutton our pants in order to exhale. But the 4th of July...

My friend asked me last night (after noticing my inability to talk about the 4th without the most sincere of smiles) why I loved this holiday so much, and I really had to think about it. So much so that I felt inclined to write about it.

4th of July carries a lot of symbols: hot dogs, watermelons, swimming pools, and the granddaddy of all celebratory expressions, fireworks. Its one of the few holidays that most people actually understand what they're celebrating, and in a way its the single day of the year when we stop being pissed off about high gas prices, a violently fluctuating economy, and all the little reasons why we hate our country and are just at peace with the fact that we have the inalienable right to hate our country. Normally, I'm the first person to roll my eyes at the thought of finding a new Dwight Eisenhower when retired Republicans moon over the thought of a military general leading our country back to prosperity (don't get me wrong, I do like Ike), but on 4th of July, I can't help but feel a little smug about wearing a red,white, and blue sundress.

The 4th is the last piece of American romanticism we have. I find something profoundly beautiful about the way a barbecue lights up my dad's face, the feeling of running around in a Little Mermaid bathing suit until falling asleep on a lawn chair, and the way no matter how many times you've seen a firework go off in the sky, every person becomes hypnotized by that red and white glow in a dark blue sky. The warmth of the summer heat mixed with the Pina Colada song being played in a constant loop is something that will never be matched for me, and for all our bitching and complaining about capitalist consumerism and political corruption, it's pretty great to be home. Those 15 minutes of watching a distant fireworks show are enough to make everyone stand still, and for the briefest of moments, we're innocent again.

I also have a serious love of hotdogs, so it just be that...but I'll be damned if I don't look forward to those fireworks.

For Sale to the Highest Bidder

I've been thinking about aquiring some property.


The real estate market has gone to shit, the stock market is holding its nose and cannon-balling down the mother fucking charts, and beanie babies just haven't appreciated the way we'd all hoped they would back in 1996. So I took stock of my personal possessions: my romantic shares.




Really, this all started with a Facebook wall post. An innocent "how are you?" sparked a quaint "I can't wait to see you," and ignited an extended network of frantically whispering women, whom I imagine running through halls with the breakneck pace of everyone on an Aaron Sorkin drama. I was flirting with someone *gasp!* ... Someone who "belonged" to someone else. So what does this mean? Under the assumption that by claiming a crush first you have first priority, I was in the wrong here. But is it a crime?


The culture of young women who feel like the star in their own personal romantic comedy is steadily growing, and the young men who would be able to fill the shoes of Prince Charming (or, to be frank, Prince of Unrealistic Expectations and Inevitably Excruciating Break-Up) are about as easy to procure as a solid gold statue of Steve Gutenberg that dispenses tampons and $100 bills. So, naturally, the stars of the RomCom feel entitled to the man they believe to be their next adventure, and stake a claim as soon as a mildly perverse and semi-feasible fantasy pops into their heads. In turn, the star's friends step aside in unison and remain fiercely loyal to her...at least she expects them to. Usually, she doesn't realize that they are in fact starring in their own love affairs, and right now that forbidden fruit seems strangely appealing...



The fact of the matter is that we don't own anyone. Liking someone first doesn't mean they like you, kissing a guy three months ago doesn't reserve him for the rest of the year, and telling your friends about your pure-hearted (albeit superficial) crush doesn't exactly earn you the right to register at Tiffany's for a silver gravy boat. Staking a claim means jack shit in the realm of relationships and it's about time we begin taking real action. Although the culture of actually DATING is on the serious decline (a topic for another time), its time to be bold and redefine what being assertive means. Being honest and speaking up to a love interest can cut straight to the point (none of this texting/facebook/he-said-you-were-cute nonsense) and either start or end something much more efficiently than sitting back and waiting for romance to fall in your lap (yes, that was a joke, and sure, you can laugh at its juvenile appeal).



So my ruling (as ranking officer in the Organization for Overanalytical Women) on this matter is that a claim means nothing without action; when you like someone it takes more than wishful thinking to become a part of his or her life. Once action has been taken (and actively pursued), the supporting characters in the Romantic Comedy shall step aside until it's their turn to take the spotlight and have a heart-wrenching soliloquy about what love means to them. Although the plot is surely more complicated and has a long sordid history (there is no more originality, just compounding complexity), we have no hold over people the way we do over our (rapidly deprecating) assets, and by understanding that fact you come to admire the twists and turns of humanity in all of its bitter, painful, unrequited glory.



Now, back to flirting with my mortgage broker...

Boys Boys Everywhere, But Not a Man to Keep

Chapter 5 of the "Trial Offer" Chronicles has officially begun and will be coming to a close soon. This one has been quite perfect, actually; he has broken the mold of other potential buyers but intevitably the sale will not go through, as predicted. The man himself is sweet, affectionate, intelligent, and sexy to the point of ridiculousness, but yet again I align myself with someone carrying about seven carry-ons of girlfriend baggage. Unfortunate.

But it got me thinking: can we practice for heartbreak? Does my track record of being the
"trial offer" (Test her out for 30 days with satisfaction guraranteed or your money back, and they always want their money back) prepare me for the inevitable "you're fantastic, I just can't be with anyone right now"? I used to think I was just slowly dying inside, each month-long relationship extinguishing any hope I had for the male sex and increasing my self-reliance for all emotional matters. I thought that by being more self-reliant I was more apt to appreciate myself and create an aura of confidence and peace, as opposed to coming off bitter and off-putting (which he assures me I'm not. haha.) and that the rest would come naturally. Of course, all that came with it were the men who read my independence as a get-out-of-jail free card and an excuse to hook up without any intention of committment. Which I happily accepted.
So when I was lying in bed with this man, (we'll call him Andrew) and he expressed worry about my being "attached" which he just couldn't be at this point (due to a long term relationship that ended less than a month ago...I know, I did this to myself, I got it) I stopped hearing him and just started hearing a looping track of everything I had heard before.
--Sidenote: what the FUCK is it with men assuming all women are attached to them? Why is it that everything needs to mean committment and marriage and devotion when really we enjoy sex and attention just as much as they do? I resent the assumption that just because I like being with someone I am now "attached," especially as it carries a connotation of clinginess at best and obsession at worst. Word to the wise man: don't assume ANYTHING about her. Ask her what you want to know; she WANTS to talk about it.

Back on track. I stopped hearing him and just felt the fuzziness of the familiar hit me like a bug on a windshield; messy, but kept at a safe distance. I was prepared for this, wasn't I? I knew this was coming, I knew everything he would say weeks before he said it. What I couldn't figure out was this: have I become hopeless or just more realistic about the inevitable end of relationships in my life? That is to say, have I just been practicing for years in order to protect myself from heartbreak or am I really just incapable of trusting someone enough to let them break my heart? After building walls for so long, I should be a goddamn emotional contractor; I could build the fucking Taj Mahal of romantic barriers. Andrew is wonderful, the timing is off, and I am seeking out something that I know will end in a matter of weeks, if even that long.

But then again, its an adventure. Until now my life was dominated by a stale pain left over from someone I barely knew and the illusion of crushes that I created simply to have something to be excited about. Now I actually get excited thinking about Andrew, but am strangely at peace with the idea of walking away from our little romantic liason. He has been a breath of fresh air from the shit storm that is my love life, and even if there is no long-term future with him, it has been pretty worth it just to have someone look at me and say, for once, "my god, you're beautiful."

Maybe I just need the adventure and the excitement, which can only last a short while. Maybe instead of feeling DOOMED about my short-term love affairs, I should appreciate them for the rush I get from the compressed passion bursting out of a relationship working on a time limit. Eventually, I'll sing a different tune and find someone who shares my love for Paul Newman, coffee at 9:00pm, my addiction to kissing, and become my permanent partner for games of Trivial Pursuit. Until then, I guess my heart has been training for a long time, and Andrew is giving it a good workout. When I can rest my head, I'll probably start to worry, but until then I think I'm pretty prepared for my own misadventures.

Oh Crash, you do make speeches.