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.