Girl on the wing

Well, here I am. Still gainfully unemployed, hauling ass to the city for an unpaid internship which should have reached it’s conclusion nearly a month ago, living in my mother’s house, and being a total delinquent online presence. Yes, I’d say I’m really succeeding at life.

In fact, my rut was so all encompassing that I did little more this past month outside of re-read Twilight (absolutely no judging, thank you), throw age-appropriately lame dinner parties while my parents were away, and ignore idealist.org. Captivating, really. I have also managed to fall completely ill advisedly head over heels for Across the Street – who, coincidentally, no longer lives across the street. Thanks again, moving home. But I am dragging myself out of this month long, insomnia ridden, vampire reading, train catching rut – I am going to become interesting again.

The first step to reclaiming my panic-ness, if you will, was Ernest Hemingway. It’s a known fact that I prefer, adore, and get a little nervous around anything that has to do with James Joyce. Joyce is my messiah. If James Joyce asked me to run away with him, I’d leave wearing the very sofee shorts and Morristown Baseball tee shirt I am wearing right this second. I’d move to Zurich and drink port and speak bad Italian and be inclined to hang out with a plethora of dead guys I find way more stimulating than the actual people I deal with on a daily basis.

Anyway, Hemingway. Or, rather, my sister. My sister woke up one day two weeks ago and decided a new tattoo was on the menu. A tattoo that I have been on her to get for, like, a year. So, really even though it was she that persuaded me into the chair, I had planted the seed months ago. Anyway, after we were feeling particularly badass, we had some totally over priced Jersey Shore dinner and she handed me a copy of Hem’s Moveable Feast. I scoffed,  no Old Man and the Sea shit for me, I’m a serious reader – who is sseriously into reading crap at this juncture. Nevertheless, it was Moveable Feast that brought me back from the land of tween vampire romance and into the world of functioning, conversating adults. And I needed that, especially now while Across the Street is in Vegas and I am home, not sleeping, commuting, and generally being cranky about not being in Vegas with him.

Moral of the story: read the classics, get off your ass, take an advil pm and everything will be okay.

Care of Michelle at Electric Ink in Bradley Beach, NJ.