Swallow This

My packet of birth control is a daily reminder that I’m doing nothing with my life. 

Translation: looking down at those sad, little blue pills, I am doing exactly the same thing today as I was four empty packs ago; wasting away in an early 20-something’s oblivion, wishing a job existed for me to online shop, know who Anna Dello Russo is and plan bomb-ass parties, inviting people via Paperless Post whilst serving dessert on tiered trays. Because do what you love, right?

Nay. Since graduating from college I’ve had an aversion to growing up, and consequently securing something both enjoyable and profitable. Are there such things as entry-level dream jobs?

When my cousin graduated from high school, the valedictorian speaker compared her experience to the growing (and eventual popping) of a pimple. Needless to say, I believe I was scarred from any right of passage since. If that was the analogy for an 18-year-old, I’m dying to hear what it is that I’m going through now. Here’s to pouring one out for the undergrad. Shudder.

I do have a job, to be fair, but in celebration of a new pack of 28 blue pills, it’s time for a change. (Because freelance video and consulting work can only get you so far). So in between cover letters and interviews, I have this. I have you—conquering life crises together (see wardrobe malfunctions, first jobs, shopping addictions, blisters, hangovers, gluten, etc.).

So off we go.

What have I learned during my brief stint here in the real world?

Being proactive is more than a skin regimen.

My birth control is not covered by insurance.

Stand by for the future.

-MM