Apocalypse Now

Today marks the end of the Mayan Calendar as well as the beginning of Winter Solstice; a little late in the game, winter, but I suppose its better late than never.

Today was a testament of my patience, my ability to forgive, and my incredible capacity to smile when you feel like the world is ending. With that test of virtue, I begin this open letter- a reminder to let you know that despite our greatest differences, we are on the same fucking team.

You spoke ill of me to others; you however, are not the only guilty party. The vicious words which escaped your lips were like venom; and here I thought I was wrong in my initial hesitation to befriend you. Infuriated I became, and my eyes began to burn, but I took a deep breath and this I say to you. I don't know what it is about me that irks you, I may not have the same accolades as you do, but I'm just as eager to learn. What a trying year its been, and still that proves to be the case. I acknowledged the fact that I am not what you are, but it doesn't make me a liar; I have not falsified my qualifications nor my accomplishments and I will not let your weary words devalue what I've done. Take pride in what you know and teach others; you do what you do because you love it, and so do I. Remember, we're on the same team, and we'll get nowhere fast if we can't just shoot the shit and treat each other well.

Forecast: High Winds, Low Humidity, Extreme Anxiety

I cannot being to express, not in words nor in actions, how truly exhausted I really am.

 I flew into Chicago Thursday morning, I arrived around 9:30, stopping only a few times to check out O'Hare, use the facilities, and ask for directions. Chicago is a nice city, with nice people (from what I gather), and they've got a public transportation system that rivals that of New York City- all positive things one loves about a city.

The seat cover changes itself; the marvels of modern technology has brought me to this very moment in time

Chicago, The Windy City. Think about wind for just a moment, how it tussles your hair, chaps your lips and nose, makes riding a bicycle really hard...whatever conception you have about wind is completely obliterated when you step foot into this city; bike riders of Chicagoland, I salute you. Seriously, it took only about an hour for the wind to really pick up, and on this fairly warm (45 degrees Fahrenheit) winter day; I had bangs that were comparable to that of Tiffany Amber Theissen's on the formative teen favorite, Saved by the Bell. 

Look at that height, ladies and gentlemen.

I am not on vacation; I rushed to check-in to my hostel which was conveniently located near the blue line train, the airport, and downtown (good job me!). I settled into my 6-bed room, which was occupied by other travelers but empty at the time, and immediately took a 4 hour nap. One of the sous chef at my current place of employment has been sick, and I am convinced that it is his fault that I contracted a rather nasty cough/cold combination-but one must conquer, one must overcome, one must at all cost, succeed.

I am here on business, I am here to make myself more accomplished, and with that, I proceeded upstairs to the common area to study. Just shy of a month ago, I contracted another, rather nasty, and highly communicable illness know to health professionals as "Aseptic Meningitis" otherwise known as "Viral Meningitis" also known as "We don't really know what is wrong with you but we have to do a spinal tap to make sure its not Bacterial Meningitis"- which is truly the least amount of fun anyone can ever have.

ARE YOU FUCKING LOOKING AT THAT NEEDLE? IT WAS IN MY SPINE, COLLECTING  PRECIOUS CEREBROSPINAL FLUID.

 In my recovery, I stayed in bed and watched some movies, refrained from eating, and surfed the interwebs. While surfing, I came upon an article on the Eater website which highlighted the best cocktail bars in the country- my restaurant was on the list as well as some other bars I'd visited during my travels this year. I read through and then immediately disregarded it, until I saw on the Eater jobs section that one of the more acclaimed venues, The Aviary, was looking for "drink makers and ice chefs". 

I miss bartending so much, but no one seems to want to let me do it; things don't happen if you don't do your part to make them happen, so I polished my resume, constructed a masterful cover letter, and compiled a list of references whom all have high accolades in various aspects of the industry. Paired with a modest email, I sent all the documents I felt they would need to see that I was a worthy candidate for the position and off it went into the internet webland. 

Holy shit, they emailed me back.

After some actual research, because even when I applied I still had no idea what it is they actually did at The Aviary, I almost shit myself...well not really, but I got really kind of nervous and excited. Their website is really quite vague, so I hopped on the ol' YouTube, and checked out some videos- I may have gotten myself into some shit I am not prepared for.

I met that guy , his name is Owen. 

(you can read more about the high end shit they do at The Aviary here)

This is the "Porthole", the ingredients change according to season; I made a few, and it was terrifying.

I don't take baby steps because I am a grown ass woman, so I plunged right in to my stage, or working interview. 

I was terribly bad at everything.

I fucked up a lot, and there was some yelling, some "you need to focus when you're handling product", and quite a few "silent obscenities", and one "you need to be more gentle with the fridge door, don't let it happen again". I was feeling tired, and low, also, I neglected to wear deodorant, and that was a self-conscious problem that I had for the entire shift. 

The staff is great, they all really seem to know what they're doing, and the manager's are on point- especially the taller Stephanie, who is a nice person up until service, and then she becomes a speed-demon who is really good at her job (kudos to you). I did not want to piss off this woman, or any of the chefs, or anyone who came in for drinks, or anyone who was in a 6 mile radius of the establishment.

I made it through an entire service on a busy Friday night, ain't nothing like throwing fresh meat into a 1000000000000000 degree fire to really see what it's made of. I sat down with the managers, Micah and Charles, who seemed drastically different, but they work really well together. It was very "Godfather", they sat in a plush booth and faced me, sitting solo in a chair and thus began the 2nd part of the interview.

After some discussion, acknowledging the mistakes, owning them, and then being extremely candid, they extended an offer. THEY OFFERED ME A FUCKING JOB. 

Maybe they were on a natural high, or drunk on power, or someone hit them so hard on the noggin that their brain functions were highly impaired, but I smiled on the inside and felt like I had accomplished something great.

They told me to sleep on it, give it some thought, and get back to them when I was ready. That was Friday night/Saturday morning. I still haven't responded, and I am still giving it serious thought, but I want to be sure. It's an intense setting, dramatically different from anything I've ever done, but it could be one of the best things I ever do for myself. 

I still don't know what I'm going to say, but for now, I'm going to down another cup of coffee, eat some lunch, check out some going's-on, and enjoy Chicago for a few more hours before my journey home.

Factory

The beauty of destruction is that we as humans persevere and rebuild, not by some conscious decision, but rather by nature willed instinct.

Hurricane Sandy has drowned Manhattan, but we look past the fury, the loss, the destruction, and there on the horizon lies the Manhattan of former glory; she could use a towel and a few helpful hands.

I have not heard back from Vogue magazine.

Today the sous chef at work told me he loved me, I replied in like with sign language. I realized that nothing has confronted me with such fear than love. Love, my friends, is quite terrifying. I understand the context in which he meant it, but it shocked me still to hear. I started this blog as a jilted lover, have I grown? Perhaps. It's been rough, but its time to get back on that horse, maybe not with the sous, but someone somewhere.

Houston, We Have a Problem

It started a few months ago with a guy, some spray paint, a stencil, and the word "conquista". His name is Uriel Landeros, a 22 year old Mexican-American "artist" from Houston, Texas. On June 13th, Uriel was accused of defacing a Picasso at the Menil Collection. The incident was caught by a patron/friend of the suspect on a camera phone and Uriel was picked up by the police, questioned, and (later) charged with two felonies (if convicted, he faces 5 years to life in prison and $200,000 dollars in fines). After boasting about the incident on his twitter and facebook accounts, he apparently fled to Mexico with friend and local gallery owner, James Perez, where it seems they coined the idea for an art show.

October 26th is the opening night of Uriel Landeros' solo art show entitled "Houston, We Have a Problem", and the art community is voicing their opinions on the facebook event page in true Texas fashion. He has assumed the roll of a representative of "the underdog" in art, whatever that means, and has intermittently voiced his "vision" on the aforementioned event page.

Here's my thing, why do you have to deface someone's art in order to start an artistic "revolution"? Honestly, as an artist, you should respect everyone's work with the same amount of integrity you have for your own. I would probably beat the piss out of you if you defaced something I'd worked of for any amount of time. Time is invaluable; I will kick your ass. What's more is that you have the audacity to defend your actions and go further by saying that Picasso himself would commend your actions. Absolute absurdity. Some of the most outlandish things I've read are coming from the artists' supporters, going so far as to say that in order to revolutionize art, we have to destroy the past and start over.

WHAT DRUGS ARE YOU ON? CAN I HAVE SOME TOO?

I'll end with a quote from a well respected, level headed artist from Houston, Shelby Hohl,

Ya know its funny how people are calling this Landeros guy's art/movement as "revolutionary". Revolutionary means to do something that has been done before. I'd rather shoot for "evolutionary".

Preach, brother.

Cream Cheese

Culinary masterpiece left incomplete until you arrived, cream cheese.

I destroyed the omelette vessel in which you traveled from package to plate. Sun-dried tomatoes burst with such flavor, assertiveness, and then from no where, your creamy texture turns my mouth to velvet. What serendipitous occurrence brought us together? The want of a pancake. What fortune I have; unconstrained by conventional uses, I need no bagel, merely the want and a keen eye. Nary a person dare challenge your ability, for your uses are plenty and your appeal far and wide. Blog posts do you no justice and odes are obsolete, but still I'll sing your praises. Heathclif to Catherine, that dish was my Wurthering Heights; Emily Bronte could not describe adequately your virtue. Subtle in flavor, rich in texture, Oh cream cheese, may you reign forever over the soft cheese kingdom.

Next week's discussion: Tacos.

Computer glitch

I wrote an entry earlier. The entry was long but eloquent and touched upon several topics, the main focus being a famous dead person in the digital age.

My computer glitched, like it does often, and deleted half the post.

I am livid, and my post is a casualty of the information super highway.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkk

Come on, Vogue.

“At the end of the day, it's just food isn't it? Just food.” – Marco Pierre

I applied to be the assistant of the food critic for Vogue magazine. This is the job listing:

Description

I'm Jeffrey Steingarten, Vogue magazine's food critic. The job is being my part-time (about half) assistant. You may already know me as the ever-so-demanding author of the best-selling The Man Who Ate Everything and It Must've Been Something I Ate. Possibly as co-anchor on NY Eats on television, or as a frequent (grouchy) judge on the Food Network's program, Iron Chef. I have also won twenty James Beard and IACP awards and nominations, the Julia Child Book Award, and two World Gourmand Book Awards. Do you love food to the point of obsession? Are you are a dogged researcher-mining libraries and the Internet for facts that have slipped the attention of others? Do you cook, shop, and repair Xerox machines? Do you enjoy keeping the office, kitchen and your boss organized? Do you write clearly, and think smart even while running errands? Do you look forward to the occasional dinner at a fabulous restaurant? Are you near the start of your professional career, and willing to give a one-year commitment? The job is paid by the hour as a Vogue freelancer, receiving, as I once did, no benefits whatsoever, but expenses and free food. If this is you, fellow omnivore, please apply. In the cover letter, please tell me about your skills, if any, in each of the following areas: 1) cooking 2) academics in general 3) knowledge of food history and food science 4) practical knowledge of food products, produce, and agriculture 5) proficiency in at least one gastronomic foreign language (i.e. not Serbian or Estonian) 6) any other pursuit in which you are especially accomplished. And please don't hesitate to demonstrate your profound understanding of my published works, or admit that you occasionally chuckle when you read them.

This is the email I wrote in response:

My name is Julie Lozano, I am the future assistant to the food critic at Vogue magazine and native Houstonian.. I appeared on television as a child in a commercial produced by the tourism committee in Houston. I worked for the Library a few years ago, and I am the proud owner of five surly cats whom I love. I was married for some time, and in that time I:

-Graduated from College (B.A. English Lit)
-Held multiple jobs
-Cared for a full grown Man-child
-Made dinner every night of the week

 One might ponder how it is possible to accomplish so much with so little time, so I will give you the answer: time manipulation. Impressed? I thought you might be.  When it comes to the kitchen, I'm a no hold barred kind of lady and I go full blown Iron Chef. I approach food with no fear, no expectations, and no presumptions- it's all about quality for me. I have had the privilege of living in a city with a burgeoning cuisine scene and a roster full of chefs with high accolades and impressive resumes. Houston offered me her bounty, and I graciously accepted. I submerged myself in the service industry early on, and with that initial submergence I have learned a great deal. Attending seminars, conventions, classes, and other various activities has provided the fuel for me to not only enjoy the food I consume on a different level, it's helped me appreciate the science that goes into transforming a few organically grown apples to a five star dessert worthy of the most scrutinized pallet. A meal is so much more than just that, its a cacophony of subjects, history, science, art, that is constructed into a symphony of flavor, balance, and culinary ingenuity. I'm not just another applicant, I am a real person with honest opinions, little fear, and no reservations. You need your Xerox machine repaired? I'll do it. Want your dry cleaning picked up? Consider it done. Have an itch you just can't scratch? I've got your back and really long fingernails. Someone really piss you off? I will punch them square in the face, just for you. In all seriousness, I love food, I love writing, and I love New York City. I've got mad skills that are rivaled by only the best emcee's and nothing but unadulterated time and dedication for an opportunity like this. You can help me change my life and kick start my career, at least let me buy you coffee, schedule your meetings, do your laundry, cook you dinner, and give you a well deserved high five. I speak, read, and write in Spanish, and I can tell you all the snarky things agitated waitstaff say when they flip script and cut up in Spanish. Did I mention I play Roller Derby? Oh no? Silly me. Roller Derby, a sport I dived into head first and came out on top. If you've never seen a bout, do yourself a favor and check it out, its the most amazing thing I've ever done and given the chance, I will talk about it until I run out of breath or you run out of the ability to care, whichever comes first. If this email should fail to pique your interest, at least I tried, and I'll always fondly recall the time I applied for a job as an assistant to the food critic at Vogue magazine. “At the end of the day, it's just food isn't it? Just food.” – Marco Pierre


Stay hungry,

Julie Lozano

I don't care if I get rejected, I just want a response. Come on, Vogue, tell me you love me. 

Craigslist for Texans

There are a few types of people who post on Craigslist:

-People who want to sell things (because they're broke)
-People who want to buy cheap things (because they're broke)
-Creepers (creepy people, that crazy guy with the thousand yard stare who sits in front of your favorite coffee shop all day, close talkers, mouth breathers, serial killers)
-Desperate folk

quit lying to yourself, you fall under one of these categories.

I have used Craigslist once, attempting to sell my no longer functioning Motorcycle; I received a number of responses (albeit a bit later than I had desired) but the most unique one came from a man who expressed interest, but could not afford the initial asking price. I am not an unreasonable person, and when you are in desperate need of cash negotiating is acceptable. With all this, I entertained many offers from various potential buyers, but the man in question was unique in his methods of haggling. He contacted me via email and asked me if I still had the bike, I informed him that I did not, but sometimes you don't take "no" for an answer- even if "no" is the only possible answer. This is Texas, dammit. I presumed that my lack of bike would have squashed any further contact from the gentleman, but low and behold I had once again taken for granted common sense, and I thank the Lord that I had the good fortune of experiencing what transpired next.

This motherfucker asked me to trade my nonexistent bike for:

- A Shotgun
- Ikea end tables
- Power Drill with drill bits
- Several extension cords
- 200 dollars cash

A shotgun. I have never been offered a shotgun in lieu of payment before.

I love Texas, and so should you. 

1:22 am

I skated to a bar today, part of my "endurance" training,

I love the bartender.

I drank too much.

I feel fat.

I might be drunk.

I love you.

good night.

How to write an Email

I've been watching Freaks and Geeks for the last 4 hours; I can't understand why there is only one season.

High school, you cruel bastard.

I announced earlier this year to my closest friends that I'd be moving to New York City with the hopes of pursing Grad school and re-establishing myself in a city I've always loved. I was hesitant to make any permanent moves because my break up left me financially crippled and it's taken me a great deal of time to find a shred of stability.

End preface.

I wrote an email last night to the Curbed group (parent company of Eater.com) applying for a job as an editor in their New York offices. I don't know if they'll even give it a thought, but I'm going to share the email with you, because its bare bones and raw, just like this blog.

"I am about to take a chance; I will look stupid and I might just fail, but I will have not regretted a single thing."- Me to my mom 10 minutes before I wrote this email.

I love writing, more than anything else in the world, and it's a big world out there. Opening with a quote might be cliche, but I am not against cliches if they relay the point. My name is Julie, and I am from the hottest place in the universe: Houston, Texas. I've lived in this city my entire life, I have loved it just as long, and I've wanted nothing more than to show it off to the pedestrian populace who wear blinders and call the city a "time-suck". I write a cathartic blog about my personal life, I write an entertainment blog about the music/art scene in Houston, and I write love letters to inanimate objects that bring me joy (think pineapple or a stuffed teddy bear). Bottom line is, I write about everything to everyone, and while not all of it get's to see the light of day, or the internet, or your kindle- you better believe that it's well documented in a moleskin sitting in my tattered canvas bag. When I'm not writing, I'm playing roller derby, enjoying copious amounts of whiskey, lamenting my love life, and attempting mastery of the oxford comma.  

Why do I want a job, more specifically, this job in question. To be gainfully employed is just part of why I would love to be an editor. I once wrote a 20 page paper on water in college; I received an A. For most people, an A is more than satisfactory- I am not most people, and an A might as well have been an F. I didn't care that I passed, I wanted to know that my professor took the time to read it, my thoughts, my research, my clever quips, my brilliant segues, the dripping wet passion- no pun intended. I suppose that's just it; I care so much about my writing, and I care about the reader, not the audience, but the reader- the singled out person reading my obscure blog post about some stupid exboyfriend, or reading my poignant paper about the world water crisis. I want to be proud of the text that lay before your eyes, the information given, the sentiments felt- I want you to care just as much as I do. Who in their right mind wouldn't jump at the chance to do what they love for a living? In the end, gainfully employed or just another hack, I'll keep writing and someone somewhere will keep reading, and I'll recall the time I applied for editor with the Curbed Network fondly.

 This is a game of Chess and I just made my opening move. I need you, the readers, more than ever- give me the ground on which to sow my seeds. Let me bend your ear for a minute, because when you need it, I've got nothing but time and no better place to be than here with you.

Thing is, writing isn't about content, well...it is, but its also much more than just that. Writing has the ability to be compassionate, informative, emotive, concise, dragged out, offensive, defensive, motivational, and a million other adjectives, and that's what makes it so great. 

Maybe I'll get a call and move to New York and get to do what I love doing (and someone will pay me for it). Maybe I won't; it will work itself out and I'm not going to worry about it.

11:34 pm - I've got a party to go to and I'm having white people problems trying to find something to wear. Who loves you, baby?

HOLY SHIT

WHAT DID I JUST DO?!

Commence complete freak out at 2 a.m.

You're most welcome, neighbors.

Baby steps are for children; I am an adult.

I am a single woman living in a big city, struggling to pay every single bill, trying to make ends meet, and trying to make a name

I just applied for a job at Eater as an editor in their NYC office. I haven't felt this nervous since I skated in my first bout. Graduating from college is like fucking sleeping compared to this. I can't even maintain composure right now. Fuck composure, I can barely even formulate a comprehensive sentence. It's not the most eloquently written submission, but its true to me as a writer, stylistically speaking for that matter. Holy shit, future.

It is a new year (I'm jewish) and it has to be better than last, because last year (as indicated in the inaugural post and so forth) I went trough some shit. 

This is the year that I dedicate myself to the thing I love most: writing. I am committed; more so than that, I am tired of working for people who can't navigate their way out of a paper bag. I am not some fucking hack writer; I've got an invaluable skill set, a keen eye, an unquenchable thirst, and an insatiable hunger for writing, and someone is going to finally notice. All in all, even if you work for someone you don't like, you might as well hate your boss and love your job.

EXCELSIOR!

Real//Raw

So I've been entertaining this vegan/paleo diet lately, and as unbelievable as it sounds. I've been a good girl...well, sort of. This diet includes the stipulation that you are not allowed to drink alcohol.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Exactly.

That being said, I got drunk with Omar Afra at Fitzgeralds on a Wednesday night.

I've got a really bad hangover, but I owe Omar an apology because I bailed on him last night in drunk asshole fashion. So here it goes:

Dear Omar Afra,

I am the following things:

hungover

hungry

tired

dumb

lame

and without manners

I ditched you last night because I was too busy being drunk and trying to feed my cats. I owe you a bottle of tequila and if you'll have it, some tacos. I promise to never ditch you ever again ever. I am sorry I suck sometimes, but it doesn't happen that often. Let's hang soon.

<3 Elle

By the by, I went to see my lawyer this morning to prep for court- I was still drunk.

That's another post and I've got to pick up some tacos.

Dark Roast

It's one of those mornings where you wake up and take inventory. Clothing is on, purse is present, license is in wallet, money is scattered about in purse, but where are my shoes? Roll out of bed at a nice and easy 9:30 a.m. and begin the transformation from drunk transient to hungover hack writer. Feeling like a slow motion technicolor film, everything is almost just floating. Sometimes you just have to take off your heels and walk barefoot; it's rude to wake the neighbors.

Shoes are in the trunk.

It might be seen as taboo or unladylike to discuss one's exploits or acts of social depravity, but I'm a no holds barred kind of lady and could really give a shit, it keeps things interesting.

I ventured alone for the majority of last evening. I had dinner with my good friend Joseph, who was dressed in a tuxedo because he attended a black tie event prior to our rendezvous at Rudyard's brittish pub, but his casual girlfriend called and so ended our evening of debauchery. Feeling the itch for another shot of whiskey and some familiar faces I found myself at Grand Prize Bar. I ran into the people I know from the industry and that made for good conversation- I was also delighted to see my friend Cheddar who is visiting from Italy. Good times were had. I soon found myself meeting with my good friend Danielle at Boondocks, which by the way sucks; we sat, listened to Madonna, had drinks, and then decided to head over to Kung Fu.

 Because in reality that's exactly what I needed, another drink.

Now see, I've been feeling on this guy for a second now, and I've been trying to play it cool because I tend to get a little bit batshit crazy when it comes to men. Call it serendipity, call it coincidence, call it drunk and horny, what have you- en route to Kung Fu I am contacted by said person. He is fucking hot. Really ridiculously good looking.

 IhavetobailbecauseIwanttogetlaidandthisguyisgoingtodoit.

Maybe I'm a bad friend for selling my friend Danielle out for a guy, but at least I apologized.

In retrospect I'll say this, he is an asshole who prays on young women and post-break up vulnerability, he is also one hairy motherfucker, but sometimes at 2 a.m. those things don't matter and you find yourself at his apartment. So sue me.

it's the 4th of July, y'all!

        I have been trying to decipher where the dull thuds i'm hearing are coming from. 15 minutes; that's how long I have been looking. Cabinet, restroom, pantry, one, two, three, four, cats are all accounted for. 17 minutes; and then, like a rogue wave, it hits me, my mystery is solved, no longer will I contemplate this tale tell heart.

        Julie, please wake the fuck up, it's the fourth of July and there are fireworks exploding in close proximity to your apartment.

Hello friends, readers, passers-by,

It's been some time.

         Fast forward two days and I've kept this post open so that I can work on it intermittently, in between wasting time and trolling facebook posts. I suppose nothing of GREAT significance has happened, yet, but I am due for some sort of cosmic comeuppance. There is a story I'm working on however, that involves the DA's office, Julian Ramirez, and my most wonderful friend and business colleague, Anna Large-Bradley. In my minds eye I'd like it to be a hard-hitting, paper ruffling, call-the-new-york-times type expose, but the reality of that paired with my time restraints and constraints as one who has free reign over her own material (which in of itself is an oxymoron) I anticipate at least a little bit of a struggle. Moving on.

        If you haven't noticed already, I am non-linear, but such is the thought process, and I believe that it keeps things interesting. In the spirit of sporadic thinking I will now highlight the serendipitous event which have prompted this update: the fourth of July or as we in the states say, Independence Day.

Allow me to preface this paragraph with the fact that I am one who enjoys alcoholic beverages and carousing with friends in public spaces that being said, I neglected to partake in such adult activities in an attempt to show some restraint and personal responsibility, only because I had a 6 a.m. meeting- otherwise I'd probably would have woken up face down in someones front yard- as is expected of me when inebriation sets into play. I departed from a friend's apartment pool and made my way home at an acceptable 7:30 p.m. which on any given evening is almost unheard of in relation to myself. I arrived, contemplated showering, decided against it, opened up my laptop, trolled facebook, and attempted to watch a movie. I remember getting up and walking over to the kitchenette for something, maybe it was water? Who knows, and who cares, I wandered back over to my bed and there it was in a tiny chat box, a message from Omar Afra- otherwise known as one of the most influential people in the burgeoning Houston music/arts scene and editor in chief of Free Press Houston . I paused for a fraction of a second, seeing as how I had only met this man once; the message read "what time is Chris coming over?" I knew then that I'd received this message by accident, but it would be rude to not respond so I replied assuring him no one was coming over and that I was in for the evening. Thus began a kind of Q/A session and he asked me for a writing sample.


A FUCKING WRITING SAMPLE.

BIG FUCKING DEAL YOU GUYS.

I haven't submitted any writing samples to any serious publications in a few years, so I freaked out a bit.

You might be that lame that you are unfamiliar with FPH, but that is your fault for living in the dark- the latter possibility being that I am that much of a geek when it comes to writing that I'd blow things out of proportion. I prefer the former because, it makes you look bad and it makes me look cool. I've given it some real thought as to what I would submit, should it be technical, creative, scholastic? So many possibilities but in truth, I prefer to show people the kind of writer I am, the way I think, and let it act as a testament to my person. I'm going to submit this blog post, accompanied by some from another blog, and the end result will be this, he's either going to like it or he won't, at least I can say that I submitted content that I enjoyed writing and pray you enjoyed reading.

It's not all gold, and sometimes it's not all brief, but I wrote it for you to read and you're going to form an opinion, and I'm satisfied with just that...and before you know it, you've read this entire post.

House Sitting

I've been house sitting for my old high school english teacher going on two days now, and despite the fact that I haven't really done anything crazy, I'm enjoying the big space and solitude, save for the company of a few furry critters. I'm really working hard at trying to come up with something to write about every day, but it's harder than I anticipated mostly because I'm lazy but partly because I might just be that boring. The jury is still out on that one.

Inaugration

I may not remember this day tomorrow, but documented in words the memory lives forever.


It took me approximately  8,0381 days to come to the realization that it is time to stop settling and start carpe diem-ing.

I suppose the adage "living well is the best revenge" is true- because in retrospect it honestly is. I was stuck in a relationship that was doomed from the get-go, it ended, I was crushed, and I spent two weeks in a state of anger/bereavement. Two weeks too long to care. I am done with men who make me feel bad about myself and hold  me back from my full potential. I WILL NEVER LET A MAN HOLD ME BACK EVER AGAIN.

I just got real riot girl for a second.
This is my catharsis. Bigger and better awaits me.  Some people are assholes, some are sociopaths, some are benevolent beings, and everyone else is just trying to make it out alive. I resolve to write one thing, something, anything every day until I can find the writer I used to be. Stay tuned, learn with me, help me grow, watch me make grammatical errors, use oxford commas, and make giant leaps into the unknown.

This is for everyone who has ever settled- it is time to get inspired and start being awesome you.

Enough cheese for now- see you soon.

Elle Kay