Why I’m debating Covenantry
Posted on: February 17, 2011
I took two ritalin this morning at work. I find that it’s imperative to keep all 4 of my readers graphicly up to date with my lack of stable mental health due to my wonderfully corporate job, but at this point in my adventure we’ll call life; I’m two broken coffee mugs away from huffing computer cleaner in the supply closet with the accountants. And boy do I hate those accountants…
I’ve been researching Stockholm syndrome lately and have come to the conclusion that if and when the hostage crisis occurs, I would willingly pick up a gun and join their ranks, a la Patty Hearst. One would argue this idea drastic; while I will adamantly argue you’ve never been a part of my chosen world: corporate.
There was a time I wore flowers in my hair, danced ‘til 5am on a Wednesday morning, drove to Vegas on a whim to place bets on the Superbowl; the general, laissez-faire, “20 something” lifestyle now known as genuine happiness. 7-11 for dinner? Ok! All day “True Life” marathon on MTV? I’ve got popcorn and Snuggies! Recreating “Sex and The City” season four with your newly found childhood box of legos? Sign me up!
Well, the flowers have died, I’m in bed by 10 on any given weeknight (fuck it- a lot of weekends too), and I’ve forgotten the warmth of the glittering Vegas skyline. My Iphone is an appendage grown from fear; no longer used solely to face-stalk, but merely another portal into my soul sucking responsibilities of “assistant.”
I sold out to a promise of stability, responsibility, growth, and to even further depress you; stock options. Yep, I am that girl. Miss Sell-out.
I had every single intention of being the poster girl for “New Corporate” lifestyle when I signed my life away that fateful September day. I remember the phone call with my Dad ending in those five words all children crave to hear from their parents, “I am proud of you.” I remember that same day shopping trip with my beaming mom buying not only my “first day of real job outfit” that would “impress all of those important executives,” but also an entire new wardrobe consisting of my least favorite color- black. I bit my tongue. I smiled and made the decision to try something new with a positive attitude, even if it meant not being able to wear glitter. They were proud and downright happy and DAMMIT; I was determined to keep them that way. Maybe corporate wouldn’t be that bad?
HAAhahAHAHAHAhahahhahHAHaHAHAHAHAHHAHAhahAHHAHA
*sigh*
Wrong.
Hey Mom, guess who gets to scrub the carpet on her hands and knees with paper towels after her bosses coffee tantrums? Hey Dad, guess who’s back in therapy and is still called Stacey after 2 LONG years of employment? Hey world, guess who isn’t allowed to leave her desk for more than 16 seconds at any given time, solely in fear of the guaranteed verbal berating if a single telemarketer hits the boss man’s voicemail? “Good mornings” are a thing of the past. Apparently, the more people you try to humanize in the office with basic conversation not related to weather or office temperature, the more likely you’re deemed “eccentric”.
And forget eye contact; even in your clumsy stupor of tripping over your bosses printer chords during an investment committee meeting warrants a loud sigh from all 8 men at King Arthurs Table, but no eye contact. You can feel your knees bleeding, the slight chance of an ego you had sorely exaggerated for the last 9 months is officially extinct, and the twenty minute morning debate over “thong” or “granny panties” under your new, transparent black tights is no longer relevant; they can all see your ass and you are not allowed to cry. Not this time. There is no crying in corporate. Save that for the 4th floor bathroom stalls.
I’d love to continue on, really I would. But I promised myself I would start posting on a regular basis. And if that’s going to happen, I cannot spend three months thinking of how to finish a 10 paragraph blog post. Glimmer- held.
It’s not me; it’s you.
Posted on: November 12, 2009
Listen, I work. A lot. I understand the whole process; overexert your mind, body, soul for someone who has never and will never understand your levels of exertion, to receive some form of monetary dignity- nay, monetary indignity. I get that from 8am through 5pm (read- 6am until 5:59am the following day), I am responsible for benefitting someone’s life. I comprehend that the likelihood of me walking into a car dealership and putting $100K -IN CASH- on the salesman’s desk, so I can drive off in a customized Range Rover is just about as likely as a celebrity having a car payment on a mini cooper (it’s made by BMW- back off.) Now, my white picket fence accompanied by 2.3 children and a dashingly handsome (doctor) husband may be completely unattainable until I reach 50 (file under: glimmer-less), but dammit; I am trying. You, Kardashian clan, are not.
I was strongly against starting this (soon to be known and admired worldwide; (I have dreams too, asshole)) blog with a political post (mainly because I knew the majority of you would instantly click X on the browser, but also because Khloe and Lamar didn’t conference with me on wedding nuptials time slots and I’m now void of any other form of emotion but rage. Read- They took your oysters and turned them into convenient, thirty full minutes of marketing promos conveniently titled: “The Kardashians.”) Guess what, folks? I’ll save you the politics (just for today,) because I’m on to something. That’s how things work around here; topics, tantrums, and tangents.
I’m in a bitter love/hate relationship with The Kardashians.
I cried. It happened. I’m a sucker for weddings (and funerals, but that’s so morbid.) But, that wasn’t until after a thought-provoking hour and forty-five minutes of Kardashian banter. Let me explain: You know how after you get into a huge, laborious, seven hour-long fight with your boyfriend (Dad, boss, whatever) over his use of the last ketchup packet in the McDonald’s bag (what’s the point of eating French fries? Chicken Nuggets? A FUCKING FILET-O-FISH? WHY AM I EVEN ALIVE?!), only to be found in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, mumbling Tori Amos lyrics to a loofah, wondering how one small, meaningless packet of fancy ketchup so drastically effected your life—but at the same time had NO EFFECT AT ALL? No? Well, that’s what the Kardashians did to me. They took my fancy ketchup. Nobody takes my fancy ketchup.
Although, Kardashians, I guess I really do have to thank you. Your deliberately stupid family and Ryan Seacrest have opened my eyes to the realities and benefits of anonymity. I am nothing but a rating and am fortunate enough to realize that although you have a phenomenal wardrobe (big shout-out E!), you all lack any form of real talent or moral fiber. But, I’m oddly intrigued by each and every one of you. Especially Bruce.
Bruce.
Baby.
Please.
Let’s chat.
How exactly did you get into all of this? I wrote exactly; don’t spare me any trivial details. I am ALL ABOUT trivial details. I’m sure this has been asked numerous times by numerous people, but how are you still affiliated with any of this nonsense? Hey Bruce, do you remember the good ol days?
Yup. That’s it
I’ve always been a firm believer that any form of public displays of chest hair (drool) relates to “good ol days,” and you, Bruce, were IN IT. And now-
Yeesh.
I don’t blame it on the a-a-aalcohol, it’s those G-D Kardashians! Do you see what they are doing to you, Bruce? I bet you don’t even have chest hair anymore. I can just picture you and Kris walking hand-in-hand into your weekly his & hers waxing appointment. Sell out.
Oh Khloe, you really are the lucky one, though. A Laker- in less than a month of dating? Kim had something to do with this, huh? Khloe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was more along the lines of an assumption that you WANTED to be the next Anna Nicole Smith and Kim called Reggie for some athletic back-up(be honest- you were heavy. And addicted. We don’t need to go through our little purse bars/pharmacies to prove said addictions (because I will win,) but you cannot openly disagree with that one, Khloe.)
You know, Kardashians, you really only have one person to thank for all this monstrosity, and she just so happens to bear the family name. Kris Kardashian, come on down- you’re the next contestant on “Pimp Your Family.” Yes, the second nominee for “Mother of The Year” just so happens to be a game show contestant!
“Now, Mrs. Kardashian. Pick between Box A and Box B!
Box A- Youve won $10,000, but there’s a catch! $5,000 from your winnings will be used in helping build homes and provide food and clothing for up to 20 years for 17 families in Northern Uganda…..
-or-
Box B- You’ve won $10,000, but there’s a catch! We fully obtain ownership of your daughters uterus.”
I want to continue. Really, I do. But we know which box was picked (those poor Ugandans,) and as you will shortly come to understand, I have an issue finishing thoughts cohesively, especially after losing so many brain cells to the Kardashians. If I dont stop now, we could easily be on the subject of Peeps. And boy do I love Peeps.
[Editors note- I’m fully aware that my first blog posting will be immortalized as an “ode to the Kardashians.” I’m embarrassed just as much (if not, more than) you are. Luckily for me, my future writing endeavors and abilities will surpass any form of notoriety this blog receives. Unfortunately for you, I posted this warning at the END of the blog. Deceitful, conniving, little bitch…. I know.]
Hold the Glimmer 