Ex-Vox: Dyejob on Progress

Detritum.

Hello again, my little former Vox. 

This might be the first post I have made since moving the blog from Vox to Typepad. My last post was three years ago, and so much has happened and yet so much has not changed.

But I'm not here to detail all of the changes since 2009; what a godawful bore. I know those stories, and I'm the only person who reads this, so what does it matter how it is reported?

One significant thing that I am here to discuss is my ascent. I have been plagued with a fear that my peak is past, that I am already past my prime and on my way down. As it turns out, there are more ups to come, and at this point in my life I need to seek inspiration within myself to reach new heights.

When I was in high school, I was passionate and bold, whip-smart and creative. I may not have been the most confident or secure, but I was certainly entertaining and self-absorbed in a way that, in retrospect, was pretty charming. In the way that teenagers always believe they are immortal and full of promise, I believed that about myself. It was the post-adolescent idealistic phase, as described in Clueless. It lasted through my first year of college before the blows of adulthood left me battered and raw. That was nearly a decade ago. There's no blaming me for thinking, after some years, that the spiral went downward only. Anyone capable of observing patterns or charting trends wouldn't bet on me as a champion, would they? Not since 2004, probably.

In the last two years, I have started to feel the imminent burn of necessity, the real weight of adulthood. Self-preservation is no longer a joke. Bills arrive, clamoring for my money; hunger roars, cupboards lay bare; the garbage continues to collect and everything remains unwashed, including myself. To address those things is my charge now, as an adult. My responsibility now is to stay employed.

To be honest, I don't concern myself with careers. There's no way in hell I can ascertain what I want to do for the rest of my life as a way to earn money. They say to do what one loves and the money will come, but ask any starving artist, that isn't true, and what really feeds us is hope -- delusion. Regardless of that, I remain willing to serve my time in a day-job of sorts. I don't know what I REALLY want to do, what will make me soar. I never have. I do, however, know what I am willing to do to stay afloat. A life with gratifying work, deep-rooted friendships, and endless hobbies and interests . . . well, that's a pretty good life, and I'll do anything to maintain it.

That is to say, I'm still hoping I can exceed it, or at least be able to do it on my terms. I'm Los Angeles to my core, which means for me as well as many that there is a tiny part of me wishing and hoping for my big break. Like, maybe I'll become a famous comedienne or a professional script doctor or a high-profile blogger; maybe I'll invent a simple, mind-blowing invention and make a mint on the patent; maybe we'll actually make music and/or sketches and become famous that way. In a more general sense, I suppose, I'm waiting for the lottery. I've said before, if I ever win the lottery I'm probably just going to start a business so that I can still work and have an income, and not worry about whether or not I can pay my utilities and phone bill for the month. I'll just be cutting out the middle man so I can be my own boss, the new American Dream. 

In short, at age 26 I have finally begun coming to terms with the world at large. Adulthood is much less abstract of a concept, despite "the rest of my life" still being beyond me. Sometimes I lament the fact that my dreams are significantly smaller than they used to be, but I remind myself that I took baby steps learning to walk and will have to take baby steps with everything else. This no longer frightens and depresses me; it makes me ready.

In pictures.

And now for an evaluation of my personal development in a place more sealed-up than most blogs I write in, one that fully understands the Enid in me.

On top of trying to improve my drawing and actually trying to teach myself bass, there's one big thing I am totally doing that I think is worth mentioning: improving my mystique.

I know, that sounds really really really really gay. But I'm doing it. During this era of oversharing and attention-whoreism being the status quo, wouldn't it be fun? Wouldn't it be refreshing to find, again, people who drive you insane with their secretiveness, despite their being apparently very fascinating?

It's major conceit, I know, to call myself fascinating, but maybe I can give that off to someone. I'm thinking of cutting my hair, of dressing less shlubbily and more impeccably, of wearing funny little accessories that catch the eye, of listening to my iPod and obliviously drawing in a corner between classes. Doing all of this without talking to anyone. I want to see if people will approach me. I'm not just talking boys. I mean girls, too. Ask me where I got my bag. Peek over my shoulder. I don't know, I'm not trying to draw attention to myself but it's high time I be one of those people that a person like myself would notice and go, "Huh, I wonder what her hang-up is. I bet she listens to ______ and likes to _______ on the weekends."

People who want to know, right? Maybe? Or is disconnect and anti-communication the wave of the future? Maybe they'd stalk me on the internet. I don't know. I'd do it.

It's a social experiment, more or less, on myself as well as others. On others, yeah, see if they openly respond, or if they stifle themselves, or if they even bat an eye. On myself, well, I want to see about building my own confidence, reclaiming an identity I had long lost to the simplicity and ubiquity of the shlubby low-maintenance look. Maybe I can return, after all, to the self-aware festooning I used to enjoy in high school -- at least to an extent. Maybe more like when I was in my freshman year of college. Yeah. I'm attempting to manifest my own attitude in fashion, but without the messy fashionista trappings and not limited to the clothing I wear. And I want to do it quietly.

This entry more than any other entry (except maybe the one about being more like Enid) deserves the Enid Tag.

Floated-bloated.

Sometimes I feel like my Vox is my Winchester Mystery House . . . if I don't come in here and update about progress, then it means I haven't had anything to say and therefore haven't done anything worth talking about (in terms of life progress, I mean). So let's discuss some progress, which I must assure myself is taking place.

WORK: I'm good at it, but who cares.

I've now passed the year-mark at the Starbucks Hellmouth and I am reaching a point tinged with both complacency and weariness. It's that weird thing that happens where you're comfortable with the place and the people in it, the customers and co-workers, the patterns and challenges. Every day is a challenge that I know I will overcome, it's just sort of irritating and sometimes tedious to have to wade through it. And I have built up a decent reputation, at least as an employee, among my co-workers. I don't care what they think of me as a person. I work to get the job done and get paid, not to impress anyone. If I cared about impression, I wouldn't work at a fucking Starbucks.

Hear that, Joni?

Funny story, Joni (my boss) is evil and I spend every day hating her. She knows this and after the final exposure to such a fact she somehow decided to nearly double my hours from what I had been getting all spring. Usually when she wants to be petty and dumb about something I do that she doesn't like, I get my hours slashed like Crystal Lake campers. But I haven't yet been fired -- knock on wood. I'm just going to keep hanging in there, I guess.

ART: Focusing and being serious, but for no reason.

One thing I have been doing lately is sewing! I finally got a sewing machine and I have made use of it since its purchase a mere two months ago. It is genuinely exciting and fulfilling to create something that has more than personal artistic merit. I like creating functional things. That's why I have been contemplating getting a power-drill. I have always been impressed and intrigued by the DIY ethos, the ingenious intersection between practicality and art. I am one step closer to being the kind of girl who buys an ugly couch for ten bucks and then makes a sleek slipcover for it. I am one step closer to being the kind of girl who says "I don't have anything to wear!" and goes to Jo-Ann's instead of just Target.

Not to slight against Target. I love you, Target.

Aside from sewing, which I am still doing poorly if enthusiastically, I have been drawing a lot. I have a hard-bound sketchbook and a bunch of pens, and I'm just hoping to do something interesting with them. Maybe when I get to the back cover of the book it will really have some merit, be a solid representation of my drawing development. I've made a promise to myself to actually draw in the book, not just BS in it like I do with lined-paper notebooks. It's something to do anywhere, alone, that keeps me warm in the brain and hands.

OUTINGS: Sometimes you have to break legs to get moving.

By that I mean I have been wholly dissatisfied with the amount of adventure and danger in my daily life, and I blame myself without argument. I used to blame my more lethargic, unadventurous company, but the fact of the matter is that I also used to be content to be alone. It still sucks that they don't see the intrigue and excitement of mildly delinquent trespassing, of hunting for humorous street signs and graffiti, of people-watching in some untapped part of town, of trying a no-name restaurant in a different zip code just because it has a funny name. But that's them sucking, and I don't have to suck WITH them. I can get off my ass and go somewhere, do something, or stay inside and make something if I like. It isn't about them and what they're doing. If I have to wait around for them it'll be like the last three years where nothing happens.

I'm sorry. I'm not content with reading forums and LJ comms all night, or rather, sitting on the other couch while Sierra does that. I'm not content with talking about the funny things that cats did that day. I'm not content with watching fan-wank DVD extras for the umpteenth time. I'm not content with CoD4 or Rag Doll Kung-Fu. I'm not content with drive-through fast-food at one in the morning when there is probably some amazing greasy-spoon or nacho-cart action open 'til 3 or later somewhere else.

Okay, I'm not sorry.

Sure, being broke is no picnic and can even rule out the relatively low-cost activity of driving aimlessly or to a slightly more remote location. But I haven't been THAT broke, I've just been feeling sorry for myself. All I've really learned by being broke is how not to miss the rush you get from retail therapy. I've been pretty good about that; not to say that money doesn't pass through my hands like water, but I really haven't been buying a bunch of crap that I don't know what to do with.

 

So yeah, here's to hoping that all of this means I'm actually doing something with myself and enjoying my life instead of being miserable. I am certainly enjoying knowing what I am capable of and what I need to get done, and I am actually getting better at doing those things. Not quite there yet, but almost.

Malaria and dengue.

We're rounding out week two of my stay at the Starbucks Coffee Company. What a rapid and sweat-filled two weeks they have been! I'm glad to finally feel like I'm working for my money and being appropriately rewarded. Base pay, tips, and in three months, benefits and other tenure-type rewards -- ah, for the promise of twenty hours a week.

There's something about this job that I don't think I can screw it up. I don't have an apathy towards it that I have had toward the office job(s) -- yes, there was even a measure of apathy with Mr. Lam. Though I know the funny thing to do is accuse the company's undoubtedly potent brainwashing techniques of my lack of apathy, but I gotta be honest, what it really boils down to is pure necessity.

I've finally begun to truly feel the weight of necessity.

But outside of the whole Hooray, I Have A Job thing, I've noticed slowly that I haven't really changed in the past year. Sure, I've sported some rarely-sported shoes, I've picked up a few inexpensive tissue-thin tops from Target and worn them to death, and I've made a triumphant return to patterned socks. But I haven't cut my hair in nearly a year. I haven't broken free of the old bad habits. I think what I need to start feeling better is a little retail therapy, actually.

I've got debts still to pay before I proceed with the fiscal diarrhea and the prettification process; until I'm ready to shop again, however, I will be salivating at every store and every site. Prepare yourself. There will be an influx of shopping lists here, happy consumerist things that detail outfits I want to build, pipe dreams caused by lunchtime visits to IKEA, you know. But I have to remind myself that I'm saving up for growing up, for grown-up things. Nothing silly. If I am actually struck by an absurd sale item at IKEA for my future apartment, heck, we've got a shed! Best I start collecting furniture while I still can, who knows what we'll need!

This entry is really scatterbrained. I just wanted to blog about how excited I am to have money and how badly I need to spend immediately before being good on savings. Make sense?

Gravensteins.

All right, it took all of two months (max?) to get fired from the office digs. So I'm on the brink of getting hired at Starbucks -- interview Wednesday, manager commented that my application was "brilliant." Let's just hope I don't fuck this up. I could, after all, get bennies from dem fools if I can manage not to get myself fired.

Life's been giving me that well-needed proverbial Kick In The Pants for years now, but that whole time my problem's been my exceedingly numb butt. I had a feeling my life and I were not prepared for something so professional as an office job. For others my age, even younger, sure, but my brain's got a fuse in backwards or something. I still have an era of pseudo-McJobs to handle, especially with a company that allows nearly unparalleled schedule flexibility to suit my fits.

And then after that, we can talk turkey after I get a degree in something.

I feel it creeping closer, definitely pressured by the shift in Cameron's attitude towards his own home life and need for independence. I feel it in myself, partly a resentment of the stunted growth of certain friends and their stalwart refusal to seize life. It might just be Last Summer, Part Two, but on the chance that it is legitimate, I've got to ride this out:

I'm going to grow up.

Fatten up.

I got another job, and with that, more hope. I like newness, but only the newness I'm looking for, I guess, since apparently I'm stubborn as a fucking mule when breaking bad habits or bucking routine.

Anyway, this new job shows promise in that I get about 28 hours a week doing office blah-de-blah without driving a million miles away and ending up breaking even. In the summer I can even maybe get 35 hours a week if the company grows and I prove my worth. Thing is, I gotta start looking for something that'll give me benefits. I have two more fiscal years to be claimed a dependent, which means that after this I don't have to take 12 units to get insurance -- I WON'T HAVE INSURANCE! Or my parents are gonna pay through the nose for it. Ideally this little admin-assist job I have now will hire me on as a permanent full-timer and give me benefits, but what it will likely do is prepare me and my resume for a job that WILL be full-time with benefits. Or I could try getting a job at Trader Joe's or Starbucks or Borders -- one of those other glorified, upper-tier McJobs that offer benefits.

Bu-u-ut, the economy and I are not quite ready for that yet.

In the meantime, then, I've been thinking about stuff that I would like to own someday. I did this once but my priorities have changed. Obviously I intend for the bulk of my monetary investment to be toward getting the eff out of my house. I fully intend to put away amounts of it in savings, maybe even some separate, high-yield savings account so that I really, really won't do anything with it until I'm prime to. But I don't plan on keeping myself from enjoying a little here and there.

So here's what I've been thinking about purchasing, or what I would currently consider sound investments. Call me ridiculous if you like.

• A SEWING MACHINE

I already have a bin full of fabrics, notions, and other neat-ass sewing gewgaws that I have been collecting over some time. Plus, I have ideas that need to be realized and projects that need to be finished -- imagine the perfect textile-based items birthed from a maximum $10 worth of fabric, thread, paint, and ingenuity. Lastly, there's something comforting about knowing that I won't have to drop six dress sizes or go to the Fat Ladies Super Store in the hopes of finding decent clothing.

• A FEW MAGAZINE SUBSCRIPTIONS

I enjoy magazines to the fullest. I read them maybe ten, fifteen times before I extract their creative potential (read: cut shit out) and discard the rest. I would really like subscriptions to the following: Craft, because it's quarterly and awesome; Readymade, because it's Craft but more themey and commercial -- and frequent; Interview, because ANDY WARHOL BUHHH; Bust, because I do like nursing my inner Femme Feminist. If I'm feeling frisky I might throw in some crap music mag but right now I'm not very happy with any of them.

• A BIZ CAS OUTFIT SET

I know Business Casual style is not for me. It looks awful on me and it makes me think of people I hate. But I need it if I'm going to enter the salaried bracket of work. So I need bland but somewhat uncomfortable shoes, conservative and self-important skirts and pants, crisp shirts with collars, blazers, and all that other crap. I like these things to a degree, but not when I wear them all at the same time! God, the things we do for money.

• A SET OF GOOD BRAS

What, that IS a sound investment. It's no fun tearing through cheapo Target bras, when you live in constant fear of being stabbed by an underwire, looking mutilated and weird because it doesn't do your bust justice, or being left hanging when the whole thing gives. In all, I know I feel much more babely when my goods are on the right kind of shelf. Wouldn't you?

• MY OWN KITCHEN GOODS

I'm thinking about starting a kitchen-only hope chest and collecting crucial parts of a dedicated kitchen. The "set" stuff I will probably end up registering for when I move out or marry Cameron/myself/whoever it takes to get a registry at Williams-Sonoma. But between then and now I can find my perfect cast-iron skillet and other nifty accoutrements, and I can put it in said hope-chest and take it with me to my dream kitchen that Grace has been so prudently helping me build. I already have a pair of cake pans, a garlic roaster, an oven timer, a rolling pin, a cutting board, and a Magic Bullet blender/food processor.

• ESSENTIAL ELECTRONIC GADGETRY

I want a TV with a built-in DVD and VHS player. They exist. They work for me. I also need a sweet stereo. My piece of shit $25 bring-me-to-parks-and-the-beach little thing doesn't work for me. I still have my heart set on owning one of those combo bits, AM/FM/CD/cassette/vinyl. If there's one of those out there with an iPod input or data CD reading capability, I'm sold. Oh, and I've been thinking about getting a laptop. I'm still more of a desktop PC person because of its high customization/reusability/refurbishment potential; however, pragmatically, I don't do really heavy shit on my computer anyway and if (read:when) I end up in a shit-hole apartment at least I know I'll have room for my computer.

• A POWER DRILL

I figure I'm going to need one someday so I may as well get one and learn how to use it.

Once upon a time I fantasized about planning a move one year in advance, and in those twelve months I would begin collecting essential pieces of furniture and other household items, keeping them in a dirt-cheap storage facility while I saved up for the first three months' rent and the security deposit. I can't imagine how people just move into a place without anything besides their boxes and one couch. My parents wouldn't let me do something like that even if I were comfortable with it.

All right, it's 6:13 a.m. No more time for talk of money and domestication. I hate this quarter-life crisis shit. Of all the things they should have told us in high school, they should have said, "We're trying to prepare you for the school part of college, not the real world part of college, and definitely not the part after college. GOOD LUCK WITH THAT."

Fled.

All right, so the job thing isn't doing so well, thanks to Steven firing me and everything.

I have all but given up on success, comfort, independence, life, growing up. This unemployment, this living off of my parents' money like I did in high school, this illness -- it's all combining to make me just want to never leave my house!

Pull the pin, drop it in.

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

I've finally found the perfect way to describe the powerplay that ultimately should lead to contentment: bittersweet. It's that thing, that realization that our existence isn't fit for just one ethical philosophy. There's no sound way to justify one route as ethically or even aesthetically superior to another.

But, that's neither here nor there.

While taking up an hour's residence in front of Starbucks/Robeks on La Brea and Wilshire, I cranked my gears thinking of how to survive fiscally this coming semester.

Defining fiscal survival: Successfully avoiding overdrafts; paying back debts and not having to borrow any more money; keeping up with monthly payments and other financial obligations.

Odd realizations I've made while deep in math:

• If I commute back and forth thrice a week, it costs $60/month via MTA and $60/week via automobile, not including the savings on potential parking tickets, so the Metro saves upwards of $180/month.
  
• Even if it takes Dramamine, I'm going to have to do this semester's reading on the train to work, because I'm too scared to sleep on the Metro but too neurotic to do nothing on it.
• People ought to know if I'm doing well academically based on how often they see me -- the less I'm around, the better I'm doing.

And here are those ridiculous things I'll have to do this semester to survive fiscally.

Work at least 17 hours per week, spread across three days.
Save $25 per check -- as in, transfer $25 of funds in checking to my savings account.
Commute via MTA when going to work; South Bay driving still good and yummy.
Spend no more than $8 daily on food/coffee/whatever, on average; larger expenditures might require a piggybank-style secondary savings regimen.
Use coupons and club-cards with happy abandon rather than secret shame.

Corners will be cut. I'm gonna be a circle.

Deference.

As if I hadn't said it enough, 2007 can eat a bowl of dicks! Worst year ever. EVER. Seemed like every time I said it couldn't get worse, it did. Not like the start of a new year will necessarily bring about the change just like that, fresh and clean, but if I think it will, it helps a lot. The only good thing I can say about 2007, really, is that it lowered the bar so much for my happiness that every good day tastes like miracles. So bring in 2008 and all of its sunny intentions.

Speaking of sunny intentions, ugh SCHOOL. What was I thinking? Christ. The fall 2007 semester turned out to be an even harder botch than I could have feared. I won't even go into details. Let's just say I probably tacked on another semester at ECC and made it even less likely that I'm a student fit for CSULB. Next semester I will be taking the magazine production class, which is closer to what I'm actually interested in life. I'm only really excited about next semester because it's yet another test of my ability to handle responsibility. I might could drive myself insane this coming semester, with a part-time job in Los Fucking Angeles (more on that in a tic) plus two online classes, which are always hard to tend to for those of us with such severe ADD.

Seriously, I'm tired as fuck of school. So enough about it.

This new job! Ahhh. For all zero of you who care but don't know what I do now, I am one of two assistants to photographer Steven Lam. My job is chiefly to help him sort through thousands of wedding photos (his main non-commercial cash flow) to find the crappy shots, chuck 'em, and clean up the good ones. And by clean up, I mean very minimal photomanipulation mostly involving output curves and occasional saturation editing. I do that and I get him his coffee and dry-cleaning once in a while, which I'm happy to do.

I love every aspect of this job, even the traffic. Though the commute to his studio may wear me someday, it's balanced out quite well by the fact that I can do it on my own time and in my fucking pajamas if I really want to, AND! I get weekends off. And I feel important working there, too --  commuting along the notorious Los Angeles freeway system to a faceless building of suites and suites of self-important offices. I feel great walking down Wilshire and entering a building, purposefully stepping into an elevator with my destination in mind, having a breather on the roof from which I can see the Hollywood sign. It's not a highfalutin job, really -- a rung below intern, even -- but it's such a deft change from the shitholes I've worked in before. I still can't believe I'm getting paid for it. I can't believe people pay people to do what Steven does, really, but those are the interesting jobs to have -- the ones whose functions in society are more difficult to detail or comprehend.

In creative pursuits, I might dabble in photography this year, not to steal the thunder of anyone else in my circle of friends who have a healthy interest or an intent to pursue it professionally. I know I'm already going to find inspiration in Steven, who is living the LA-artists' dream and is kind enough to have taken me under his wing. He's generous with advice and unwittingly quite generous with career guidance. I may as well start saving up for a dope-ass camera, get some practice under my belt, and hope for the best.

Oh, but there is one big thing I'm worried about: my tendency towards self-destructive behavior. I know we all have a little of that inside of us, all of us artist types. We pick up bad habits like quarters on the sidewalk -- eagerly, almost considering them blessings. They torture us, they inspire us, they change our lives. The bad habits I'm trying to kick are, surprisingly enough, not health-related in the least. Those are the ones I don't really mind at the moment, and I commend my parents for keeping their meddling to a very bare minimum.

The bad habits are, of course, procrastination, poor money management, and this very disgusting habit of not sleeping at proper times. The first and second, what else is new? I really ought to make better use of my planner. Ariel swears by the planner, er, plan when it comes to online classes, of which I'm taking two this coming semester. Jot down EVERYTHING and check it FREQUENTLY. Money management, ah, well, when I'm making money that I can manage, then I will manage it. I had a really tragic finance situation in 2007 so any slight improvement is inspiration enough for me to try and treat money with greater care. I haven't yet received my first check from Steven but I can wager all of it that it'll be bigger than my last check from Cold Stone. It's day two of my new year with WaMu and I haven't yet had to waive an overdraft. I ought to keep it up! Ha.

As for the third bad habit, well, take right now, for instance. I somehow reason that it suits my best interests to stay up until nearly 7 a.m. typing in a journal no one reads when I will be getting up for work in about four hours. I can't help it, I had a healthy nap earlier today. I can't seem to get myself to bed. I'm also worried about a pattern I've exhibited in the past week -- being completely and utterly unable to drag myself out of bed before 1 p.m. I'll set my alarm for 11 and snooze it until 1 p.m. or until the barrage of phone calls finally becomes unbearable. A few days I found myself asleep until nearly four in the afternoon. No one lives like that and does well. I can already feel myself getting driven a bit batty by the lack of daylight hours I've been able to catch, and battier still by having to wait for my night-shift friends to be off work in order to hang out with them.

So what now, then? I'm sick of school but I persevere, if not just to appease my parents and social dictates that tell me I need a degree to find my cog in the machine. I'm sick of creative ruts but I'll be out of them soon, I hope. I'm sick of not having any money, and I'll bank on the MTA EZ Pass if I have to, so I can pinch a penny or two this year. I'm looking forward to 2008 and all its fresh starts, lofty promises so far. For once, instead of me waiting for a break, I'm noticing the breaks being given to me, noticing the opportunities as they open wide, and I should stop somehow preventing myself from seizing them.

In short, I'm sick of crapping it up every year and I want to get better about everything and anything.

IN VERY SHORT: SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT YEAR.

Hustle.

A semester's coming up, which means I'm filled with well-intentioned optimism and determination, and yet I acknowledge the feeling that my enthusiasm for doing the right thing is really sort of funny and displaced because I always end up horribly disappointed when the semester comes to a close. It's been the pattern for the past three years in college.

Now, however, I'm embarking on year five with something genuinely new: A GOAL WITHIN SIGHT.

Since I switched majors to Journalism and announced my unofficial double-major in Anthropology, I felt as though I were staring down a gunbarrel. Not sure how long the barrel is, but I know if I stand there long enough a fatal bullet will come flying out, right? Whatever, point is, I was excited at finding a goal but dismayed by my ability/inability to follow through.

So here's what is going to happen. I'm going to switch majors again, this time to Anthropology, so I can petition for graduation in the very foreseeable future. I'm talking end of spring '08. I'm doing much better in Anthropology than I am in Journalism, having passed all of the core Anthropology, History, and Political Science classes I've taken (post-CSULB) with at least a B. I'm deeper in with credits in Anthropology than in Journalism, and after completing three more classes in the field this semester, I'll be even farther along. If I'm feeling really gung-ho I might consider a winter session class or two.

In any case, I'm ultimately trying to get transferred back into CSULB as soon as possible, under the guise of Anthropology. I hope they take me, 'cause I've burned a lot of chances to do well in school and my grades look really ugly. But according to Cameron, transferring with an AA is much, much easier than trying to get in as a freshman. Anywho, once I'm there I can switch majors to Journalism, finish off a degree in PR (that is, if I don't already have a job in the field by then) and FINALLY TELL SCHOOL TO KISS MY ASS.

Reason #46 why I love Cameron: he's of genius quality.