When I have a paid reporting job

likeacollegejourno:

It’s still going to be like:

Like your run-of-the-mill compulsive gambler,

I need to apply for self-exclusion from book stores of any kind. Hey, chick with the degree, libraries. They are free. Unless you owe them exorbitant amounts for that Hemmingway book you read before college to pretend that you knew something and forgot to return. Which I did. It was about guns and women, I think. Oh, and some bullshit about being a man. I like Hemmingway, I do. 

Being perceptive, like a bitch

Grace: “Wait, wait wait. Those are way too many. Unless you get really depressed, Katie, and drink them all.”

huzzah! Huzzah!

No anti-hat rule in the employee’s manual? Cold office? Irrational need to assert that I am not, yet, entirely an adult?

I’m back. 

Somehow, this seems like a step back…

My room right now is some sort of demented mating of middle school, high school and college me. The most predominant articles of these eras are either pink (dear middle-school me, fuck you), dance, Will Farrell or journalism-related. Why couldn’t I just casually like something? Now it looks like I’m either extremely eccentric or suffering from multi-personality something and at a high risk of starting a hush-hush sort of club in my basement. I mean, I’m already wearing carpal-tunnel braces, which are almost as tough looking as fighting gloves…  

Three years of pseudo independence to get a degree, just to move back to my parents’ house…yea that makes sense. 

oh, wrong

Dad: Girls and guys can’t be friends.

Me: WHAT?! That’s ridiculous. Girls are stupid. I’m a bro. I can be a bro.

Dad: No you can’t. You may dress like Annie Hall, but you’re still a girlie-girl.

I’m going to take that as a compliment…