Word in the cafeteria is that there will be a snow day tomorrow, since we are supposed to get something like ten inches. But if you were to look out my window, all you would see is a ramble of snowflakes, apparently not even enough to cover the walkways. So I am not taking a chance on snow and throwing myself into homework today: I need as many As as I can get.
Why’s that, Heather? you might wonder. Parties, eh? Too many drunken escapades involving glowsticks and basslines? Sorry, no (I prefer my glowstick battles sober). Sure, I engage in strange octobot-type dance from time to time, and I wouldn’t be opposed to some live-action, Bollywood-style musical number in the street –– but I am too big a nerd for excessive partying. I can’t have a go on the mechanical bull when I’m worrying about the economy,* can I? Because essentially I am majoring in dreams and impracticality, a fact that becomes clearer as the days tear off the calendar.
If I were to document the history of my career choices, it would go something like this:
AGE 2 I am totally going to be a movie star! YES! I will wear pink heels and star-shaped sunglasses and win Oscars all the time, and I know I’m qualified for this because I practiced walking down a grand, red-carpeted staircase at my friend’s house (except the carpet was actually beige).
AGE 6 I should just do karaoke for a living. Like, sing. I could do both! Like Dolly Parton. Except not country music, it’s gross.
AGE 7 I am so not going to a state school, Mom and Dad. I am going to New York. And not to be a lawyer! Nevah!
AGE 9 Writing stories is kind of cool. Maybe I will just do this? “Today begins my life as a writer.” Yeah, that sounds so good! Okay!
AGE 13 I don’t care what Mom says, I am being an actress. Or if that doesn’t work out, writer/director/photographer/fashion designer/journalist/TV reporter/cartoonist/zoologist/psychiatrist.
AGE 14 Okay, mabes I will do that writing thing. Acting out of type is hard.
AGE 15 Wait, so when I wanted to be an actress you argued that writing was a viable career, but now it turns out that that requires a backup too? No, Mom, I am not becoming a lawyer. (But maybe sociology? Zookeeping?)
AGE 17 So I guess I have to apply to colleges. Oh God oh God oh God.
AGE 18 Not all accredited institutions of higher learning hate me! Woot!
PRESENT Snag-a-Job, you need to stop sending me stupid emails. I don’t care if Valvoline is hiring, okay? I can barely change the oil in my car! I know that the car battery is black and square and that is about it. Leave me alone and stop making me feel like someone with no viable skills. In fact, I will just delete all of your emails in true passive-aggressive fashion and then go read about Restoration-era gender roles instead of applying, so that when I graduate I can perhaps get a job delivering beverages to telemarketers.