Sequins and Post It Notes

Last Wednesday, in the wiry little arms of First Denver Shacker, I was dubbed, one of "you nine-to-fivers" in the weirdly gloaming snow-coated sunrise in the offensively cold Colorado morning. His version of sympathy to my drab cubicle life was something along the lines of

"It's dark when you go to work and it's dark when you leave. That sucks."

As if it weren't bad enough that at twenty-four I feel resigned to letting my dream of an independent, creative life of work die, not even slowly, while I spend eight hours a day burning my retinas with intense blog-reading, online magazine scouring, and, lucky me, the occasional Spider solitaire-ing.

I can tell that I am getting stupider. (More stupid?)

How have I, in such a short time since that blissful, carefree and ignorant time of being a student, already put my fantasies to rest? They were not so far fetched. Is it so much to ask that I be a lusty lounge singer? They still exist. I already have the ample bosom required AND the sequined dress. How do you get the hook up for that? Where are the cheap, floozy entertainer networking events? Give me the skinny if you know.

Even more plausible, I want that job where you get to just voice over commercials. An ugly, vile little bird told me that in order to do this I would have to go to broadcasting school. Boo. It isn't journalism, it's barely thinking! Read pre-crafted sentences off a page! Come on! I have excellent diction! I have mastered inflection! I do accents! I am VERY interesting! (Not even required for voicing over but surely an added bonus.)

Somebodies life out there is being thrown an amazing twist by fate, it could be mine! I must keep myself open so that karma can smile on me.

Don't get me wrong, I do not expect life to solve itself for me. I actively pursue new friends, men, interests, activities, and, lets face it, jobs. So far, it seems, my moons are just a little crossed still. Maybe I had some sort of sketchy karma to sort through first.

However, I do have another date this week with Little Luke, the thirty year old photographer who lords his flexible schedule and passionate work over my head. But he makes me laugh. And the making out has really been working out, if you know what I'm sayin'. So he may win me over yet. Otherwise he can go live alone in Boobistan.