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!