Sissy, nooooo

For almost my entire life, my sister and I have shared a room. There is something really special about sharing a room with a family member because its not like college when you have a bad roommate and you say, “This person is a freak,” it’s like when they’re a family-member and you have no choice. Let me just pause and say that I am also a nightmare. When I was little I refused to go to sleep unless I had my Dorothy figurine by my bed. Why? Who knows? How fucking weird is that. And I had to have a cup of “bubble water” by my bed, and it had to be filled up to a certain point, and it had to be in the clown cup, and sometimes in the middle of the night I would yell “fresh” because it would go flat and what is the point of bubble water without the bubbles.

I usually have a tough time falling asleep: the room needs to be perfectly dark and NYC quiet (so sirens and construction is just fine). My sister is the opposite. When we were younger, she had to listen to Harry Potter tapes in order to fall asleep. I would lie in bed eyes fucking open, open, open, and Harry and Hermione would be off on an adventure. Now it wasn’t like the tapes moved from the beginning to end, they were all over the place. Tape 6, side A would play and like Ron and Harry would be drinking butterbeer and then BAM the tape would finish and the machine would switch to the other cassette which was OBVIOUSLY not tape 7 but instead tape 4 side B of The Prisoner of Azkaban and no longer The Chamber of Secrets. Sometimes, when the machine started to make the sound that indicated it was getting ready to switch to the second cassette (obviously this machine was not fucking around), I would get out of bed and turn it off. My sister would then magically wake up and say, “Sissy nooooo” and fucking Hogwarts would be back on.

So there aren’t tapes anymore but now, instead, she has a fan on because the sound is critical to falling asleep. I have sort of gotten used to this except that, compounded with the fact that my house is “cross-breezed” like an open-air market, I’m like really cold. Whenever my mother goes somewhere she insists there is “really no air in here” so she opens the window “just a crack.” Ok, let me tell you something, when it’s like 10 degrees outside and the window is opened a crack in her room, and in the living room, and in the bathroom, there is enough air. I promise. And you know what? If there isn’t enough air, luckily I have this fan by the foot of bed that just might do the trick.

Part III: Hey, happy "HOLIDAYS" even though the only holiday on the calendar right now is Christmas bc Hanukah is over

Another great thing about Christmas is the Christmas or WAIT "Happy Holidays We Won't Exclude Anyone from Enjoying This Card Because Even People That Don't Celebrate Christmas Are Celebrating Other Holidays And Not Only Do We Not Want To Offend Them But We Want To Wish Them An Ambiguous Season's Greetings" cards. So here is a picture. You may notice a sort of "tree" or "shrubbery" in the background but its just for decoration.

Part II: On my drum

Here is the highly anticipated Part II of the Christmas special. Maybe you could even call it a Christmas retrospect at this point; things could get very exciting. Christmas is mostly about the anticipation, wondering what is in the presents beneath the tree: is it a Barbie? I hope so, I hope its not one of those craft kits. Do you remember those? There was time during the birthday party era when that’s all anybody ever got; or rather, you knew that if so and so was coming to your party you would probably get a Make-Your-Own-Perfume kit—something like that. Right after thanksgiving, New York starts getting itself ready for Christmas like a woman in a Tresemme commercial who doesn’t realize she can get the same hair treatment without going to the salon; Christmas trees go up on Park Avenue, chopped up Christmas trees are lined up in really inconvenient places like right by the subway or other normally crowded areas, shops start putting the color red in their windows, and really obnoxious Christmas carols come on the radio. I cannot fucking stand it. I don’t mean the Christmas atmosphere; I mean the pop carols. It’s out of control: NSYNC Christmas and I don’t even know what else. I was in a shop and this

R&B remix of the drummer boy came on but it started to sound super dirty. I don’t remember what the actual main guy was singing but then in the background you just hear “ooon my drum, ooon my drum.” On your drum? WHAT is that a metaphor for? What exactly going on “on your drum”? I thought the little drummer boy was just hitting up the stable without anything to show for it but now suddenly something else is happening here.

Speaking of the stable and manager and things like that, I actually went to church on Christmas Eve. I was listening to the sermon given by our priest who has a Bigus Dickus speech impediment, if you know what I mean, and, as it turns out, she views this as a challenge. Instead of avoiding words with the letter “s”—as she fucking should—she uses as many as possible. MOVING ON, obviously this isn’t reeeaally important, she starts talking about how everyone in the congregation is like everyone who was visiting little baby jesus that night. Here’s one comparison that—you know what I let it speak for itself first. She goes, “I’m sure some of you were inn keepers this year and the inn was full and you had to turn people away when you fired them from their jobs.” Ok, so let me get this right: when you fire someone, it’s like turning away Christ. “I’m sorry you can’t work here anymore and also I hate Jesus.”

Christmas Special

PART I

During the days of my internship I took the downtown 6 train every morning. It was always beyond me the general incompetence of everyone there; as if, just before I got on, everyone got in a group and organized themselves so that they could make the most effective obstacle course before I arrived. “Ok, you over there with the big coat, stand by the door. DO NOT MOVE. Whatever happens, you are a fixed object; think of yourself as the statue of liberty: you are greeting but you are a beacon and not an escort. Great. Then you over there, with the small child, just put her in the stroller, come on. I see that it is one of those special strollers, perhaps you call it a “pram”, but I like the size and let’s work with that.” So everyone starts getting together to work against me but then there are also those individuals who do a good job just on their own. For example, there will probably be at least one guy who takes up about two seats; not because he’s fat, but because his legs are spread so far apart that his dick better be the size of Santa’s bundle of toys, or he’s overdoing it.

Then there’s this awkward half seat in between the guy with the big package and the pole to hold onto and, even if someone gets up so there’s an actual seat where you could sit down if that was what you really needed, some fuck comes and stands in front of the seat. Nope, they won’t sit down because they don’t NEED to sit down; they don’t mind standing because they aren’t lazy and they want you to know that and recognize their strength and perseverance. Not only that, but they have positioned themselves directly in front of this space so that you have to ask them if they want that seat—so they can answer that no, in fact, they are perfectly happy reading their Economist (yes! I always read the economist on the train because not only do I exercise on my way to work but I also educate myself) standing up.

Let’s say you make it on the train, maybe even to the inside to the middle--where you move because you are a considerate passenger. Perhaps you have even got a chance to sit down. So you’re sitting there wondering if you should offer your seat to this middle aged/old person (you can’t properly tell, which is why this deliberation is taking so long, and you don’t want to offend anyone especially someone who is PMSing because they are fucking crazy, and you know this from experience) and then, I fucking promise this will happen, some one comes down the aisle asking for money. It is no longer just the average person asking for money, they are fucking scootering themselves down the aisle because they don’t have legs and you know what? If you don’t give them money you’re an asshole and, as a side point, not only did you ignore them but you also didn’t give up your seat to that woman.

I look very grim. It's because I'm method acting.

So today I paid homage to democracy—I served my civic duty to the utmost. Before I headed over to the court I was pretty excited because I heard that you got paid for serving. I thought, “Holy fuck, am I actually going to make some money?” I am not. On the back of the little slip that we in the courthouse call a “ballot” you have to list employment and, tragically, that is not something I can attest to or, in fact, even supply any sort of information about whatsoever. So, while you are sitting in the juror room scribbling away self-deprecating facts that are not jokes, surrounded by all the attractive people in NYC, this video comes on.

This video is not just any video; it is the fucking HISTORY of jury duty. You will not merely learn about jury duty but they will take you all the way back to The Beginning, because this is ABSOLUTELY CRITICAL information to know. I was expecting some like cursive stuff on the screen or whatever--but no! These fucking rogues in colonial costumes come out of the woods and into a “clearing” and they are charging someone with a crime and deciding if he’s guilty or not by throwing him in the water. The acting is super intense too, people are crying, showing disappointment, reservation, anger, some serious subtlety of expression. Can you imagine if your job was to act out old jurors in a jury video....

No, I’m not really in many films but have you ever done jury duty? Yeah, in New York. Did you watch that video? Yeah! That’s fucking me. No, I don’t get thrown in the water; my friend, she had the better resume, she got that part. But that part, right before the whole drowning bit, that’s me, standing right there. Yeah, in the blue. I look very grim. It’s because I’m method acting; I’m drawing on my past emotions and channeling them to display the feelings of an ancient juror and I’m sure I would feel grim and I wanted to express that on my face.

And what about the people who do reenactments on like the fucking evening news or E True Hollywood Story. Like when they’re telling the story of how some girl got kidnapped and murdered and you are watching it happen on your TV screen, which is pretty crazy because why the fuck didn’t someone stop filming and help out. But THEN these really helpful words come on the screen—“Reenactment”—and that just clears everything up. What if your job was to play the murderer; what if that became you specialty. What if you had a job..What would that feel like.

Names for art exhibits that will never be used:

Georgia O’Keefe: Flowers that look like vaginas

Seurat: OCD and very, very, very small dots

Van Gogh: Things to look at when you’re high

Hopper: People who promise they won’t look at you

Marcel Duchamp: Shit found

And....that's all I have for you right now.

Did You Notice How Smart I Am By My Literary References Question ?

I was at an author’s book reading last night and it dawned on me that I had completely forgotten how annoying people can be at lectures and things. So, I’ve arrived at the 92st. Y to hear this reading and immediately I am devastated that other people have showed up. They’re all pushing to get in and casually dropping the author’s name in conversation as they do so just to prove to the other people, which are touching them because it is so crowded, that yes, they know what’s up when it comes to Orhan Pamuk and they are seriously legit in general and they are also seriously legit about listening carefully to the reading. Also everyone either look a) like a literal manifestation of “intellectual”, b) Jewish or c) both. (OK! Listen, they did look Jewish. Plus, I’m half Jewish so I can say things like this and also David Foster Wallace does it. [I actually think this a really interesting quotation as an aside]. In A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, he writes about his experience on a cruise ship. While he is waiting to board he notices “A lot of the people waiting—Caribbeanish clothing notwithstanding—look Jewish to me, and I’m ashamed to catch myself thinking that I can determine Jewishness from people’s appearances.” Then he footnotes this: “For me, public places on the U.S. East coast are full of these nasty little moments of racist observation and then internal P.C. backlash.” He is right and I am also right with my description so let’s all move on).

ANYWAY so all of these people are bumping and jostling and we finally get to our seats and the thing begins. Here is the first incredibly annoying thing: People nod their heads when they are listening because they want you to fucking know they know. They know what he is talking about and they can’t help but agree. Not only do they agree but luckily there is a question and answer session so they can beyond agree; they can show how much more than know, and this can apply to any question/answer session where the person speaking appears moderately important to the audience. There are two types of questions here and I’ll break them up because I’m rambling:

1. The Fucking Stupid Question. For example, last night someone asked the novelist, who had just come out with a five hundred page novel, is the novel dead? Yes, yes it is dead, but I am doing my utmost to revive it. That’s why I wrote this one million page square shaped thing. I’m thinking, now correct me if I’m wrong, that we could possibly use it as some sort of digging device to try and find the novel, which has been encased in tomb and thrown into an abyss. And I say “abyss” because I’m a novelist and also because I can tell, from you intelligent question, that you understand vocab words like that.

2. The Did You Notice How Smart I Am By My Literary References Question: For example, “When you wrote about X in your new book were you alluding to Dante’s inferno? If so, how do you feel about incorporating Western literature, perhaps even ideologies, in your work? Do you feel this compromises the integrity of your novel’s message? Like, I don’t even know what the fuck I just wrote. I don’t even know if it makes sense. And you know what? People who ask that type of thing, they don’t know either. And if they do know, then there is no point to them asking the question. Honestly, what do they think is going to happen afterwards. Pamuk will come down from the podium and be like, "You, you are fucking brilliant. Do you have your PhD? I am so glad you told me. Let's hang out. What's your skype? Do you skype?"

When he said "sup" do you think he like really meant it?

I remember when we got our first computer. I was sitting in my room and I heard these video game noises and I was pretty stoked because I thought I would finally get to play video games. I was wrong. It was AOL version like 1.0 going crazy as it connected to the internet. This was when screen names started to become big. My first email address was otterpaw@hotmail.com No joke. I fucking loved otters and that was going to be my special email code name. Otterpaw. I think otterlover was probably taken, or my dad was worried that was a bit too freaky for the web. I guess the second you put “lover” things can get weird.

Then I moved to AOL because it was cooler and because not only did I have an email, but then I would have instant messaging too. Otterpaw was taken. Ok, what the fuck? Who the fuck was like “Otterpaw—that is the name for me” unless they were also a member of The Friends of the Sea Otter Club and carried around their club card like they were going to get into Costco later. I sort of want to email otterpaw now and ask them what was up with that? Do they know the kind of trauma the name change caused me? If so, how the fuck do they know about my personal life?

My new email address/ AIM on AOL was Antis, which people called me before I went to boarding school. I didn’t even need any numbers because this shit was so new. I used to come back from school sign in and stare at my buddy list for like three hours wondering if all my crushes would sign on soon so that I could wait the appropriate time and then says “sup” because I certainly wasn’t going to type a full sentence and/ or use punctuation. Then when they did sign on and I’d waited (maybe just a little longer than normal because like maybe I should wait for them to IM me first so I can tell them my that nm is what’s up but I’m obviously kind of busy and engaged in other sup/nm exchanges with various other people) I would IM them. Sometimes I would have six on my screen at once. And we used to copy and past different shit we said in IM. It would be like OMG soccerstar14 look what 6thgrade crush said-copy-paste-wait for analytics. For example, when he said "sup" does that mean is he like generally curious how I am? I cannot believe he Immed, yeah, I know, and it was like almost right after he signed on too!

This post isn’t really going anywhere except that I think it’s amusing that all screen names, and email names, and all of that shit is now just literally your actual name. The creativity has been lost because no one wants to put livingwithmyparentsiscoolbutitwouldbegreatifyouhiredmeandicouldmoveout@gmail.com on their resume.

NOT a Nalgene--bring one of those special ones from Switzerland

I’m sorry that I haven’t been writing in a while. I’ll be honest: it stemmed from insecurities. I’ve started to say shit like, “In my blog,” and to think about “blogging” as one of my hobbies and I sound like a fucking douche bag, but now that I’ve accepted that I’m ready to move on.

I wanted to feel bad about myself Sunday morning so I went and watched the marathon. (Note: do not do this with a hangover. The “cheer zone” is not an ironic zone) So I’m watching people run by and there are some couples running together and some of these people are couples and some of them are matching couples. I was watching at the end of the race so this meant that all of these couples had been running together for like 26 miles. They must be really, really in love. I know this not because they have just shared this physically challenging moment but because I was reading Cosmo and they said that when you begin to match with your partner it means you are totes in love. FACT: Once my roommate, who doesn’t read this so its fine, went on a couples run and was so rightfully ashamed that she LIED and said she was going for a run on her own. Ok, but seriously, I could never ever do that. I feel like the only time you should be sweating with your boyfriend is when your fucking him. Thoughts? Because not only is my really super hot boyfriend not big on matching outfits but it is also I don’t want to be around anyone when I’m running.

To begin with, I’m not big on running or exercising with people in general. Like when people say things like “Hey want to go for a run?” No, no I don’t because, as I’m running, I’m slowly going to start thinking about how fast we’re going, or how fast you’re going, and then I might get a little competitive. In fact, you can probably notice because I am breathing loudly; I’m a “loud breather” when I run and, when I’m thinking about whether or not I feel like pushing myself, my breath gets really fast because I just want to beat you—even though we are OBVI friends—but I’m not really suited in the lung department.

I thought about doing hot yoga once. It seemed like a really good idea until I thought about all the other people. Why did something think like this seem a fun scenario: Hey! Let’s all get into a room and sweat together. And I don’t mean a little perspiration or “glow” I mean let's fucking sweat! Yeah! Let’s be really disgusting! And you, you look like you're about 300 pounds—Ya! You come too! No it’s not a sauna because we’re going to sweat on these special little mats that have been designed just for us. And when we’re done with all this you can carry your special mat in a special case and swing it over your shoulder so everyone fucking knows you do yoga! Also, if you want, bring a special waterbottle (NOT a Naglene bring one of those special ones from Switzerland) and carry this with your mat--or clip it onto your backpack!

I mean there's another problem for me: water. I want mine in a bottle, fucking untouched by human hands, and in a square shape or with special groves for my fingers that will facilitate my grip because sometimes I walk quickly and things slide.

I chose it out on purpose

The elevator is undoubtedly one of the most awkward places in the entire world; it’s like being stuck inside a coffin with a bunch of strangers, and they are the worst strangers in the whole world because they could also be thought of as your neighbors. Luckily, I live in a really enormous building so I don’t have to be friendly—which would be the WORST—and we all just stand there like we are the sole individuals present and, of course, this can create some bizarre situations because tragically you are not alone.

This is a true story. I got into the elevator one Saturday night (that’s right I was actually “going out”) and it was fairly chilly outside but I say “chilly” specifically because it wasn’t actually really cold yet. I was wearing a scarf. Not a big deal. So this woman gets onto the elevator and immediately breaks the don’t-fucking-talk-to-me-in-this-small-space rule that I have with everyone.

Woman: It’s really cold out.

Me: [Why is she talking to me? I’ll give a short answer] Yeah.

Woman: You will probably be cold in that.

Me: [What?!] Oh, this scarf is pretty warm.

Woman: You should go get a jacket.

Me: Well it’s a pretty big scarf.

Woman: That’s lucky.

Oh, actually, it's not a matter of luck because I chose it out on purpose. I literally saw it and said, yes, I will wear that and my neck will be warm and if I want to turn it into a hat later because I'm feeling crazy, I can do that too because I have options and free will. What did she want me to do say, “Stop the elevator immediately! I do not want to freeze to death in this insufficient scarf that I am not really lucky to have, even though there are children starving in Africa who—if they were cold and it wasn’t hot there—would want this scarf, because it will never ever shield me from the bitter cold of October. Somehow god is trying to reach me through this angel disguised as a bitch in the elevator. He thought he could trick me but NO! I will trust this angel, this Gabriel here, because she knows best.”

Mooo, welcome to Stew Leonard's

Yesterday was a pretty big day for me. Living with my parents means I go grocery shopping with my mom. There is some comedian who talks about how annoying it is when you go to the supermarket, fill up your cart, and then someone moves it, or they bring it in the back and empty it out, then the comedian says something like “you’ve picked out all of your shit there especially for you, and now it's gone.” I’m sure the joke sounds much better when done in a caaraaazy voice and into a microphone; however, that’s not my real problem with the supermarket. But I should come out and say that I don’t go to any supermarket I go to fucking Costco and then me and my mom, we fucking go to Stew Leonard's right after because we want discount things in bulk and we also want discount things that seem like they might come from a nice grocery store but are also in bulk .

Our first stop is Costco and here’s why I sometimes hate it: I hate all of the other people there. It’s not how special my cart is, it’s that other people are there, and they bump up against me with their supersized box of pancake mix, jumbo butter, ten million Hershey bars, diet coke, and fat ass, and sometimes they look in my cart. The other day these two short fat women, pushing a cart together like umpaloompas carting pounds of sugar, pass by me and one just looks in my cart, looks in MY fucking cart. THIS IS MY CART! What the fuck were they doing looking at my stuff? Yes, I have a set of fifteen toothbrushes, but so what? Why do you care? Maybe I sleep with so many people that I have to give them all toothbrushes and then when they leave in the morning they get to take it with them like a party favor, so OBVIOUSLY you might conclude that I run out very quickly.

So I’m pushing around this cart, which is proportional to all the crap we’re buying—so, very large, and people are looking in my cart, and it’s terrible. But then we go to Stew Leonard’s. Here’s a word of advice: never go to there if you’re high. While I doubt anyone ever says, “Yo! Let’s get really, really high and go to Stew’s (because that’s probably what you call it if you’re in the in crowd)” do not be tempted. I wasn’t high and I was still incredibly freaked out. When we first get there we pass through this “fun zone” area where they are selling apples and cider, and shit like that, and there are all these people that stop and look like “Oooh what is going on here? Do you want to stop? Should we stop? No. Let’s do it. Ok let’s stop.” Ok, whatever, but while you and your middle aged husband are deciding your own adventure I’m wondering if I’m ever going to get in because I see they are giving out free samples of donuts and I really deserve one.

After passing through this very stressful entrance, we make it inside, and there are decorations everywhere. It’s not just your typical Halloween decorations it's like a fucking freak show. There are these little dolls that hang from the ceiling and flip around this fake trapeze things and they are next to a sign that says, “We flip for a customers.” Do not flip for me, I do not want anyone to flip for me—especially a little Satan doll with crazy eyes. As we walk through the shop, which is like a maze by the way and we are about to get killed by a minotaur any second and, you are not going to fucking believe this, a huge cow comes out of the fucking walls, and we have no string, and it follows right behind my mother: this cow costumed fuck. It was terrible. That’s what I mean when I said if you were high you would not be happy because you’d be trapped eating samples and then this huge cow would come up and would be like, “Moooooo, welcome to Stew Leonard’s.”

Is that your adult sized scooter out there?

What do you think about adults on scooters? Let’s take a poll. Oh wait, this is the perfect forum for a fake dialogue and an opinionated person. Poll= It’s not okay for adults to be on scooters. I’m sorry, but that’s it. I’m not talking about those little Razor scooters, but honestly could you imagine that?—I mean the electronic ones. I think anything that you ride while standing perfectly erect (obviously things could get dirty here but lets be grown ups) isn’t cool. When you are in a forward motion, you should not be perpendicular to anything. Think of it as a rule. This is probably why people look so fucking ridiculous: because riding a scooter is admitting that you have no physical capabilities whatsoever. “Scootering” is what Klosterman thought soccer was. (There you go, gooch). If you’re not down with public transportation, bike, and if you can’t bike, walk, OR if you feel like making no effort just stand still and the ground beneath you will move. You should wear a helmet though because you never know, the breeze could seriously fuck up your hair. Plus, you have to try and trick everyone into thinking you are actually being dangerous and bad ass. You are fooling no one. Imagine... "Hey you, how'd you get here so fast?" "Just hopped on my scooter. Didn't even peddle. Didn't need to: it's electronic. Check out my helmet." By the way, I tried to get a great picture from google images but I couldn't. People are just too embarrassed. Or they're moving so fast no one can catch them.

Of course, I understand, it's just that I really want to explain my problem to you again because people are waiting behind me

Did you ever realize that, whenever you're in a rush, the most annoying, stupid, incompetent person is standing right in front of you? This can happen in everyday events like walking to the subway, walking to work, it came happen anywhere: lucky you. Usually, when I’m in a rush, I develop a personal vendetta against whoever the fuck is slowing me down. I sort of decided they are doing it on purpose. Why do you also want to go down that street?! Where could you possibly be going?!

But you know what, sometimes I think people are doing it on purpose. I was at the post office the other day and I was there to mail some seriously heavy shit. So I get in line, which is not that long for the first time, and I'm pretty happy about it because, like I said, I was exercising in a way—lifting weights. As it turns out, the person in front of me is one of those people who likes to reiterate their problem but also the fact that they understand that it's not the person behind the counters fault. Let me go into extensive detail because I can, because I was there listening, so I know EVERYTHING. So poor little Timmy had ordered a book for class but it wasn’t there yet, the post office had called to tell him that it would be there but, oh no! It wasn’t yet! Ah! Fuck! And it was really hard for him because he had to read it for a class on Monday. So he goes over this problem a million times, pointing out the details on the note given to him, etc, and then he does something like this—these are the segway words you have to be careful of: “Yeah, its just that----:” If you hear those words, you are fucked because it means they are about to start the whole thing over again. Or, “Yeah I know it's not your fault but WAIT let me reiterate the entire thing for you so I can prove that I know it’s not your fault because I am a frustrated yet compassionate and understanding customer” And then I think, “Oh, thank goodness, because you may have noticed I’m standing behind you so it’s harder to hear what you're saying. Oh, yes, that’s me the one with the big packages. Yes, it's true I’ve heard them described as “heavy” and “big.” It’s because it’s a lot of books. But don’t worry, I’m toning my arms and I really want to make sure you have enough time to fix things up with your pal behind the counter.”

Ya, I believe you Dan.

If there’s one thing I know in the city it’s this: Dan Smith will teach me how to play guitar. If I don't know that by now I'd have to be fucking retarded. Thanks Dan, I "get it" but unfortunately I'm not down to jam. In fact Dan Smith has been available to teach me guitar as long as I can remember and, according to the photo on his flyer, he doesn’t age. I was walking to work the other day and I saw his little flyer up in Chinatown. I am legitimately curious how he has managed to put these signs up everywhere. Granted he’s had at least 22 years to cover all of this space (could be even more) but it also led me to another question: why won’t anyone just play with him? I mean, if he still has these signs plastered everywhere (like what happened when the Springstreeters released their new CD which was like so fucking professional they got really intense signs to prove it and put them everywhere. But it was still a capella) there must be a very serious problem. What if his mother just put up all these signs like, “Please just play with Dan.” Can you imagine if your mother did that to you? “Please just hang out with Antonia. She has no discernable talent but see her posed here with a guitar.” Or what if you made a sign that said: “Don’t play with Dan Smith. Play with ME!” I bet Dan would be so fucking pissed but, at the same time, he can still fit into his skinny jeans and his hair has great body so he really shouldn’t be complaining.

Now with added fiber!

I only have random thoughts to offer this morning. Since I've been a math wiz recently I'm going to hit up some fractions and then some integers. (<---"integer" is a math word).

(1/2. someone super hot is now living in my apartment building. I saw him in the elevator. the space was like a little too cramped; it was AWESOME).

(3/4. the guy on the train is probs super jealous now.)

OK and because fractions aren't fun...

1. I was walking back from work the other day and I passed a massive woman wearing capri sweat pants—I don’t mean “OMG she is so fat” like when girls say it, I mean when you pass someone and they are fucking fat. So after thinking “Oooohoo look at her pants,” I realized she had slits above the knee as if only her knees had gotten fat all by themselves (which obviously wasn’t the case because clearly the rest caught up) and needed to be liberated from the pants. They looked like the faces of two fat children with napkins on their heads. I felt better about my own outfit.

2. Oh my god. I was going to blog about clothing because obviously I am so fucking stylish and a total authority on that kind of stuff and then Ray Romano came on the tv screen. Did you ever realize that whenever you want to watch tv fucking Everybody Loves Raymond comes on? WHAT IS HE DOING IN ANOTHER SHOW? Why won’t he stop? Does this mean when I turn on TNT Ray will ruin this too?

3. This is a really important point. Why do my favorite cereals keep adding fiber to them? I got back late one night and was eating a nice big bowl of cereal when all of the sudden....."Now with fiber!" That was probably the worst suprise in the whole world. Granted I was eating cereal that wasn't super fun but the best cereals are also being ruined. For example, during my lengthy commitment to the TV yesterday an ad come up for Fruit loops “Hurray!” I thought, “Fruit loops! What fun!” Wrong. Fruit loops now comes with added fiber. These kids are jumping up and down having the best time ever but little do they know things are going to be miserable in a couple of hours. Sure you "can’t taste the fiber" but I promise you you will fucking feel the fiber in the near future. Another point: are people lacking in fiber? Are little Cathy and Danny about to require some UN rescue food packets and habitat for humanity so they can sit in a hut and shit like crazy? Oooh if ONLY they’d had enough fiber.

Some lists

I feel like this list needs an introduction. One of my special tasks at work the other day was to call crime bookstores. Note: people who work at these places are really weird. (Though I just realized I usually open my posts with some really sketchy comments like uuuh this is not what I mean, what I mean is legit.) Anyway, all of these bookstores have really “clever” names: Murder by the Book, Booked by Murder; things like that. One of the bookstores was called Pandora’s Books and I thought, being me, holy shit wouldn’t it be hysterical if it was Pandora’s Box and it was a sex shop? These are the kinds of things I think about at work.

Names for Sex Shops

Pandora’s Box

Think: Inside the Box

There’s Waldo!

This Shop Is Invisible to Everyone But You. Do Not Be Embarrassed to Enter Because No one Can See You!

Names for Sex Shops that Already Belong to other sorts of Shops

BJs

D’Agastino’s

Banana Republic

Jack in the Box

Dick’s Sporting Goods

Ask your mom if we can have a playdate on Saturday

Remember playdates? If you don’t this it probably sounds like that moment in SVU when the little kid confesses something but pretends like its totally normal. Show me on the doll. Show me on the doll. Well, playdates are not like this. Playdates are when you would go hang out at your friends house after school or go to the park. Sometimes you’d have a playdate on a weekend. SOMETIMES you’d get to have a sleepover on a school night. Then there were always the playdates that your mom set up with the mom who was her mom friend but this doesn’t not mean the girl was your friend. This was the worst. You’d find yourself at the weird girls house like “doing your homework” which really just meant trying to hang out with your letter workbook the weirdo. And I know everyone supposedly grows up and oh, poor sue because no one wanted to have playdates with her but guess what? Sue wasn’t even cool in upper school so fuck that.

I always had a problem with playdates until about 7^th grade. I just wanted to play Barbies. All day, everyday. Fucking skipper and ken too—no one was left out. I was so ashamed and embarrassed and I really should have been because, lets have a moment of honesty here, everyone else stopped playing with them in maybe third grade. I, on the other hand, had a younger sister and a thriving imagination and one trillion Barbie clothes. The picture up there is a of my friend and me when we dressed up as Barbie and Ken for halloween. We were like totally "joking" OMG we're barbie and ken, but I look super into it. I also went through a phase where I pretended that I just “collected” the collectors’ edition one (obviously, I was really clever at coming up with schemes) That was absolutely a lie. And it was probably clear to everyone else too because I didn’t keep them in the collector’s box because I had to change their clothes and shit.

A couple years ago, (like probably when I was in fucking college) my old babysitter left and a new house keeper came along. Before the new one got settled my old babysitter said, “Now listen, you may walk in on her playing Barbies. Just pretend you didn’t see and walk out.” OK. I WAS LITERALLY IN COLLEGE at this point; I think I know how to hide Barbies.

Girls kick BUTT at soccer!!!!

Since all of my present day complaining is probably getting a bit old I thought I’d shake things up and complain about the past a little bit. It’ll be fun.

I fucking suck at soccer. I was always the worst person practicing on the field at any given point. That’s right, I have been on a number of soccer teams despite an entire lack of skill. When I say “lack” I don’t mean like “OMG I cannot beeeelieve I missed that pass in the second half I have like got to work on my left foot.” I mean: don’t pass me the fucking ball, I will not pass it back. I promise. In fact, I will also not “trap” it or stop it with my foot so you could save us a lot of time. I will especially not do a chest trap because that really hurts even thought no one talks about it and acts like nipple to ball action is legit because GIRLS KICK BUTT AT SOCCER! Have you ever seen those shirts? I have; on my soccer team right next to the girls who were wearing “Girls RULE Boys DROOL” and “Miss. Happy.”

My problem with soccer really only become evident—granted my mother was probably aware much earlier than I was, as were every single person who had ever watched me—when I went to boarding school. It was a really devastating miscommunication. While at my day school you had to go to preseason no matter what, at boarding school you only went if you were really fucking good and wanted to be on varsity and had played at soccer camp all summer. So when I got there I was recognizably the worst person present and also the new kid who clearly should not be there because she was totally never on a travel team. We would do foot touches across the field and then I would be so slow that everyone would cheer for me as I made it to the mid point and would continue ten minutes later as I got to the side line, and I say “midpoint” and not “center line” because we weren’t even going down the whole field, we were going from left to right. Here’s the thing about cheering: when you are doing really well, when you are “excelling”, cheering is the best because you think “everyone is witnessing my awesomeness and I will succeed” when people are cheering and you suck you think “all of the people know I suck and are watching me and just want me to make it to the other side so we can stop.”

Finally, my senior year I quit soccer when I was about to serve a second year on varsity. My coach was like “Come on! Just keep trying a little bit!” and I was like “playing soccer literally makes my day worse.” So I went and did theater instead.All of this soccer shit came up out of my packed away memories where other kids keep more important things like the fact that their parents hate them—or whatever—when I was reading an essay by Chuck Klosterman. Here is a really great TRUE thing he said:

Soccer is the “one aerobic activity where nothingness is expected...Soccer feels “fun because it’s not terrifying—it’s the one sport where you can’t fuck up” Okay well fuck Klosterman on the fuck up part because I clearly did but I find the “nothingness” bit really enjoyable. It's probably because I like real sports like running and exercising on a daily basis just for fun because I just love working out.

Ice cold when the label turns blue

So, the other day I passed a boy whose shirt read: “I go out on school nights.” I mean what a serious baller. I’m not in school and I don’t even go out. One summer I was such a introvert that, when I went out one night, I came back to find a sign on my door that said “Congratulations Sissy! It’s 12 and you’re not home yet!” Serious high point.

Here is the truly awful thing about coming home moderately tipsy (or noticeably not sober, you might call it) I have to walk past a series of doorman AFTER I go through a spinny door. So I go round and round (maybe twice if I’m feeling up for it) then it just shoots out and releases my body in to this zone of judgment; obviously I have no say at this point how the entrance is made because that door is not fucking around.

Can we just have a quick talk about beer. Ok, you know how there is beer that tells you its cold by the color? What the fuck? Why has no one stopped and said that yet? I am literally feeling pretty good about pointing that out because, when I pick up a beer, I can usually feel if it's cold or not. I will go, because my brain tells me so, : " oh, wow this beer is cold" I am not like "oh shit let me check what color the can is." Here's a picture of one of those beers:

Can you read the label? It says " Ice cold when the label turns blue." First, lets talk about that copy. Umm WATER is BLUE not ice the label is counter intuitive. When the icy mountains are melting its cold. false. How 'bout this for a new line: Ice cold when there is literally ice coming off your bottle. Do you feel it? Do you want gloves? It's fucking freezing, right? YA! Look at the label next time, man. You're going to want to SEE if its cold because if you touch it you will get fucking frost bite.

PS

Nothing legit is going up until tomorrow. Sorry. Here's a fun picture of my dogs! They are fucking safe safe safe in their lifejackets.

Because I haven't posted in awhile

Here is post which should never be shown but, as a punishment to myself, this is literally what I wrote on Saturday night. It's ok to be embarrassed or to even think why the fuck did you "publish" that? But I'm just going to share anyway...I'm sure my millions of readers will be disappointed.

My dogs are the cutest dogs in the whole world. The problem is, everyone thinks their dogs are just the fucking cutest everyone else’s are okay but not nearly as cute. I think my family has more photos of the dogs than of anyone else. Right now my dachsund is sitting by an empty of food thinking, “Feed me. Right now. I hate you, but if you feed immediately I will love you forever.” If someone else in my family were in the room right now I would probably go, or they would who knows, “OMG loooook at Charlotte she is so cute. Come here, no come here now you have to see this.” It’s pretty much a win-win situation for my dogs (I have a corgi, too) aside from the fact that they aren’t going to be fed. That’s right we starve our dogs HAHAAH

Here’s a list of things that might necessitate a “Come here and look at the dogs!” moment.

Look at the dogs! They are sitting next to each other!

They’re all lined up.

They’re all lined up the other way.

They are like almost lined up

She’s eating!

I am making a list about my dogs on a Saturday night

I am worthy of love, joy and success.

It was going to be a single-post kind of day but then I ran into this gem on the Huffington Post; titled “Five Steps to Staying Productive and Positive During Hard Times,” and I thought how could I let something like this go untouched by my sarcasm and cynicism—especially when I’m a self indulgent blogger. So I’ve provided you with the tips and then taken it upon myself to mock them. If you don’t feel like reading this shit then I highly suggest you at least skip to the end and read the last bit. It’s the best.

1. Dream Big: if you like to fantasize, or you graduated from Harvard and your dad’s in publishing so you can come out with a book and then everyone can go “OMG she just graduated from college, can you believe it?”

2. Believe in Yourself: I mean yes, you should, but also be realistic. Here’s a really, really important example. On the subway the other day, and this is not a fucking lie, a guy got on and said “I am Earth Angel. Girls, if you have never seen an angel before now you have. I want all girls younger than 24—if you’re a second older that’s no good—to join my ministry. I have come down here to earth because I am an angel.” If you are that guy you shouldn’t believe in yourself unless you are really and truly comfortable with being a pedophile.

3. Stop Complaining: Ummm, stop writing “newspaper articles” about self –help.

4. “Turn paranoia on its head”: What does that even mean? Honestly, what the fuck does that mean?

5. Self-Affirmations: this is the best part. I don’t even need to say anything but obviously I will. Just imagine yourself saying these. Or better yet, imagine someone else saying these while sitting alone at their desk. ( * = funny, ** = dangerous, *** = both)

I am worthy of love, joy and success. *

I am loveable and capable. *

I can create anything I want. **

I am able to solve any problem that comes my way.

I can handle anything that life hands me.

I have all the energy I need to do everything I want to do.

I am attracting all the right people into my life. ***

Spectator of Fun Losers

OBVIOUSLY smoking and drinking gets super boring to read about, like, can’t you think of anything more interesting to talk about? Haven’t you been at college for a million zillion years studying literature (woweee). Yes and blah, blah, blah. Before I move on to the inherent sophistication embedded in the soul that sits behind my awesome thick rimmed glasses and, and yeah, that is the only moderately hipster thing I’ve got going because, let’s admit it (the “us” there is probably the three followers I’ve got going) I’m like “sort of” waspy.

As September approaches and the devastating reality that I’m not going back to school sets in, it seems like the perfect time to latch on to the past and suck out memory before it turns to nostalgia. I’ve divided it into sections for people who like sections and for people who don’t like sections but love a challenge.

Monday mornings

Ok, here was one of THE MOST annoying things. Say you go out Saturday night, you have the best time ever—does he like you? did he want to hook up but like you totally intimidated him so he ran away but its because you’re so intimidatingly awesome, and not because you are like fucking weird and drunk, that it didn’t work out—and woke up the next morning on the other side of the bed, because you could make it to the other side which was farther away from the door and also not close to the bathroom in the incredibly rare case that you were sick, and think to yourself “Wow, we were all drunk last night. What a great time”

(Note: This is not the kind of thing I say when I wake up because the first thing do is roll over and say good morning to my really handsome, funny, smart, and entirely committed boyfriend and say “good morning” because I’m that kind of girl. duh).

But all of that aside, right when you are thinking how great the weekend was, this kid ruins it: “Oh my god, you were like SOOO wasted on Saturday!!!!!!!!” The kind of fuck who says things like that also uses excessive !!!! so yes, they were intentional and necessary. Why do people feel the need to comment on how much fun you had? Like, umm excuse me, why weren’t you wasted? Where were you? IN THE LIBRARY? Oh wait, you weren’t even there, you were standing watching me at the bar as I got drunk with all of the friends that I have but you don’t. Spectator of Fun.

Double Secret Secrets

Ok, this is the most fun. When you are drunk (but not high because you don’t do drugs because they’re illegal) and you are in a public space and everyone else is sober. On one hand, this can also be a terrible because you are obviously the only fool in the room. On the other hand, if you can act normal (or at least act normal which, when you’re drunk, sometimes is actually acting overly overtly normal) then you have this awesome secret that no one else knows and you can have the best time in the world. This is the most fun, but if you’re someone like the spectator loser from section one then this will probably never happen to you.

What goes through my mind when I drive my car (from my father’s perspective)

Yes! I get to drive my car again. I’m so glad it’s my car and never ever belonged to my father. I am completely oblivious of the fact that it actually belongs to him. I wonder who pays for the snow tires and gas. I bet it comes from all my internship money.

I think the inside of my car looks super clean, maybe I’ll stop by a garbage dump and fill it with crap before I get going.

I am so glad its raining out. I think I’ll drive as fast as possible. I love when I can barely see out the front of the car because the weather is so bad. Maybe I’ll just shut my eyes if I get the chance. I wonder if I’ll be able to hydroplane. If I just go fast enough I think I can pull it off.

Today is the ideal day to get on the Taconic Parkway. I can’t wait to take the most challenging route and completely ignore all of the road signs—especially the speed limit; going around those curves at 90 mph is so exciting. My friend Jenny did it, which means I can do it too. Plus, there are never policemen on the Taconic and, if there are, they will be so impressed my car can go so fast.

Why are there other cars on the road? This is absurd! I am so surprised to find myself driving along side other people. I figured I would have the entire parkway to myself because the highways are usually so empty.

Oh, looks like I need gas since I’m miraculously driving on empty. The red mark on my gas gage is probably just there as a suggestion. Hmm, where can I find the most expensive gas station? I love spending money on gas. And, if I’m lucky, I will also find a gas station like in that movie The Hills Have Eyes. I could totally beat anyone’s ass! It’s too bad it’s not nighttime because this would be the ideal time to assert my independence as a woman. Or maybe there will just be some truck drivers there with super awesome tattoos, and I could just get a ride from someone else! I’ll offer to split my beer with them. That’ll do the trick!

The hungriest in the whole wide world

There is a huge advantage to living alone, or with your friends, or with your unbelievably hot boyfriend who loves you NO MATTER WHAT you do because he is just ideal like that, that you don’t really think of until you are living with your parents (even though you are like really confident that you will be living with the guy from the subway really soon because destiny is destiny and you can’t change that). The advantage is that you can stuff your face whenever you want without wondering if anyone suspects something and, when you might be feeling a little paranoid (or maybe you’re just perceptive and cautious, who knows) this is really nice.

In contrast, when your mother is sitting home when you get back and are the hungriest you have ever been in your whole life; you worry. You might go home, after extensively visualizing the bag of mini oreos on your counter, to find you mother guarding the kitchen like someone who guards things from individuals who do drugs even though they don’t know they are guarding anything. You have to start acting like you are Harry Potter in The Sorcerers Stone (You might get a bit distracted because you start thinking about how crazy HP is) and you are sneaky, and agile, and good at snatching things up and running. You might literally run into the kitchen, find your mother, pretend you are looking for something (but honestly, like what could you be looking for in the kitchen other than food? but you don’t think of this because you’re on a mission), and run back to your room. No one asks why you are running. (Maybe you only think you are running). And, when you do finally find yourself alone with this bag of oreos, you discover that the fact that you can literally have a handful of oreos is really cool.

Blogs my mother could write (middle school edition)

Things you don’t know but I do.

Are you leaving the house? Let me give you this critical chore to do right now.

Because I said so.

Are you on the phone? Let me pick up and dial anyway

Looks like you’re trying to get some privacy. Let me come in your room.

Its 9:05 where are you?

It’s 9:06 where are you?

It’s 9:07 where are you?

It’s your mother. Call me back.

How could you possibly be unreachable. I’m cutting off your phone.

I really cut off your phone.

You are so much lucky than I was.

You don’t even realize it do you.

You know what. You don’t.

You don’t need a bra yet.

You are NOT the nipple girl.

I'll just wait till your friends intervene and give you a bra. And deodorant.

It’s 10: 03 where are you?

Hey, hi, how are you?

This summer my parents had a cocktail party. My special job (because I’m a big girl) was to help pick out the beer. Fact: when you are coming off of your senior year in college and you were seriously like so fucking cool that you drank the most beer in the entire world you will suggest that your father does the same when you go to the liquor store together. Fact: Old Wasps like vodka not 30s of Bud light. You don’t even need beer for situations like this.

It’s a shame that you can’t eliminate the whole “talking” element of cocktail parties (by the way, type or say “cocktail” enough times and the “cock” part becomes hysterical) because the thing is that you just say the same thing over and over again to everyone.

Hey, hi there, yes hi, how are you? It’s great to see you. How’s your summer going? Oh that’s so great. It’s funny you should say that because my summer has been “great” too.

I’ve spent the time working for free—don’t worry I hate getting paid so it’s pretty much the perfect setup. That’s right I go into the office everyday, sit down, work, and I don’t ask for anything! It’s the best. I mean, let’s be honest. What would I possibly do if I got a paycheck? Move out of my parents house?! Like, nevvahhh!

Oh yes, graduation was a blast. That is so kind of you to congratulate me. You know what, Mrs. Mortimer, I have a story you are going to die when you hear. So my friend Emily---you would like luuuuhve her—was like completely wasted the night before and she was still drunk at graduation and she threw up in her cap. Isn’t that hysterical? I mean who remembers their graduation anyway? Hahaha—NOT ME!

But wait, how long are you going to be here this summer? Did you just arrive? That is so short. What a shame. I too will be here only briefly since I have really important and demanding obligations back home. I’m hoping to stay just long enough to get some serious drinking in and bang your son. Yes! I saw him! I didn’t mention that? Well I did. I heard he had a serious cocaine problem this year but let’s be honest: he looks great...Oh, you didn’t hear that? I’m sure it was just a lot of exercise. I mean that can do wonders. Ya, no, I mean you’re right, I wouldn’t know.

Oh, excuse me, I see the bar and I need to go.

People/ Things on my shit list

1. Alexis Bledel

2. The Movie "Post Grad"

And, yeah, that's it actually.

"Boyfriend jeans" are for single people

My dad and I went to blockbuster the other night—little variety—and rented Memento in BlueRay. At the checkout the girl goes “Oh man that is wicked good in BlueRay.” Her nametag said Isabel and then beneath her name it also said, “Izzy.” What the fuck? Why not just put “Izzy” on her nametag? It’s not like I feel more of a personal connection with her because in the five seconds it took me to admit that I’m watching a movie with my dad on Friday night I moved down to the quotations marks and felt good about myself because, hey, I’m not going out with my friends tonight, but at least Isabel/ "Izzy" and I are on a nickname basis.

Sunday is usually a big day for me. It's a day where I really push my limits, really test myself. While some people are hanging out with Jesus, I think how much food can I eat in one day? I just had three pieces of toast, a chocolate bar, and a bowl of cereal, should I keep going? Probably. Should I share this with people? Maybe not. Maybe I will anyway. Maybe because I'm such a huge blogger I just do it!

I also see how many episodes of Law & Order I can watch. My friend calls Law & Order SVU "Rape." Whenever I talk about Law & Order, I always hear that people only like watching SVU. What?! "Sorry, I don’t like watching your normal average criminals, I only like watching rapist and pedophiles. That really gets me when I feel like hanging out and watching TV.” Obviously companies are aware of what a hit the show is because all sorts of shit is advertised in between. But this is what I don't get. Why do match-making websites advertise? Well I've just finished watching Little Sue's body recovered from a trash can after she was raped and murdered by a guy she found on the internet but, you know what, Little Sue probably didn't take an adequate amount of time to fill out her questionnaire and she doesn't dress in cool bohemian clothing (that I can, like, TOTALLY relate to).

Not that I haven't seriously considered joining one of these websites anyway. When you're sitting in front of your TV (sorry, YOUR PARENTS TV) and your dad just asked you if you have the butter in your room, it might be time to start asking some serious questions--questions that super trendy people everywhere have decided to mock. I'm talking about the new obsession with "boyfriend jeans" and "boyfriend sweaters." It's a nice offering: Hey, sorry you don't have a boyfriend but since you decided to drink beer and eat pizza on Saturday night just wear these baggy jeans and we can pretend. Speaking of guys, I’ve seen this guy on the subway like three times. It’s probably destiny. Next time I see him I want to be like “Hey, our kids are going to love this story.”

You read blogs.

No, that's cool.

A lot of people are going abroad, doing peace corps, teach for america, helping poor kids in poor places (africa!? africa is the best case scenario for something like this), and they blog about it because, like, what could I possibly want to do on my saturday afternoon other than read about your awesome trip? NOTHING. Hurray!

And this is great for me because I'm living at home, with my parents, and I just love the blogosphere. Check out that lingo. I would say I'm not necessarily an "aspiring bloggist" but I'm thinking it could be great. Maybe I'll lie sometimes too just to shake things up. For example, yesterday I went to a school and painted it for free because I'm like that.

Aside from helping a lot of people with my strong sense of compassion, I'm not quite sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I went through a super weird period when I was obsessed with sea otters, and then I wanted to be a marine biologist. I am incredibly serious when I say, “obsessed.” It wasn’t like I thought they were super cute, I wanted to SAVE them. I was a member of “Friends of the Sea Otters.” They sent me a membership card and a khaki hat that I wore everywhere. Very cool. I wonder what that card was even for. “Excuse me miss. I don’t believe you like sea otters. Show me your fucking card.” Bam. I have one.

I mean I wouldn't mind having a job that "paid money" so I could "buy an apartment." My mother tells me I should relax because I’m twenty-two, I can do anything I want. Wouldn’t that make a killer cover letter? Dear Human Resources, Check out my age. I’m twenty-two. I can do anything.

Here is the kind of letter I actually get:

Dear Applicant,

Hey, it’s us! We know we’ve haven’t gotten back to you in—has it really been seven months? But here we are now: the company of your dreams.

It’s true we sent you an email a while back saying we weren’t interested but guess what: we are! Despite the fact that we cited “a lot of qualified and impressive candidates,” we actually just didn’t even look at half of the applications. However, after reviewing your well written, articulate, and at times astonishingly witty cover letter, we realized what a mistake we’ve made.

First, can I tell you how thoroughly impressed I am with your education? I mean, wow! Since you identified your institutions in bold face on your resume, and name-dropped them in the opening paragraph of your cover letter, I was able to pick up—almost immediately! —that you probably identify these institutions as “elite” and “respectable.” Thanks for the tip!

I also really appreciated the organization of your resume. Usually I’m distracted by the uniformity of presentation but when I saw yours I thought, “No way! This girl gets it.” Your use of bullet points, indentations, and changing fonts really grabbed my attention but was never distracting.

Now I have to be honest, I haven’t actually spoken to any of your references because I didn’t even feel like it was necessary. I understand, however, by the variety and number of people you’ve chosen, that you have developed a lot of personal relationships. Good for you!

Do you think it would be possible to come in for an informational interview? We’d love to offer you a job but we aren’t hiring now. We know you’re excited just the same.

Sincerely,

Human Resources