What to do When Someone with the IQ of Asparagus Pities Your Career Choices.

I've spoken about a girl I work with before on this blog, you may remember her, my slightly racist, orange co-worker whose long-term goal is to be an import car model. You can read posts about her, here and here.

She has proven to be an exercise in acceptance and humility. I've learned to tolerate, and occasionally even like, this former cheerleader who is the color of a dirty penny. I've learned that I can literally make friends with anyone.

If Charles Manson and I were forced to make lattes together, I would eventually find common ground with him. I would even learn to overlook that swastika he carved into his forehead. I mean, I have a hella embarrassing tribal tattoo. Youth, right?

Also, whenever I start to feel good about myself and my life decisions, I'm quickly reminded that I am career peers with a girl who doesn't know how to pronounce photography. PHOTO-GRAPH-EE. I wish I was kidding.

A few days ago, I was feeling particularly great. I just landed my first freelance gig. It paid nothing, but I'd be writing about a topic I love for a popular local publication. Cloud nine and shit! That was until this happened.

Spawn of Tan Mom: Allie, when do you graduate from school? 

Yours Truly: Oh sweetie, I graduated two years ago. 

Snooki's Oranger Cousin: Oh. You haven't been able to find a job? 

YT: No, I mean I have some work lined up, but I'm still trying to figure things out. 

Bronze Forrest Gump: Awwwwww, I'm sorry.

You don't really know what humility is until someone whose life ambition is to pose semi-nude on a neon green Honda Civic pities your career choices. It's like having the guy who pisses on himself outside of 7/11 refusing your change, because you look like you need it more.

It's kinda like this.

   

But mainly this.

So what do you do when someone with the IQ of asparagus pities your life choices? You cry and eat all of your feelings. And remember that at least you can pronounce the word photography! 

Which will not help you in the least when you are a 45-year-old barista. I'm going to make cookies.

My Ass Hurts. And I Blame Mark Zuckerberg.

I like to live in denial.

Maybe you figured that out after reading the name of this blog. If so, good job. You obviously have keen observation skills. You probably don't live in denial.

But me--I'm a long-term resident.

I'm not really a barista. I don't really have student loans that I've deferred more times than I care to count. I don't really have a drinking problem.

And my favorite: My ass hasn't grown at all since high school.

Denial was my friend but not anymore.

I blame Facebook. And Mark Zuckerberg by proxy. (You hear that, Zuckerberg? Go fuck yourself!)

Facebook has an abundance of amateur photographers. And these people can tag you in photos. Most of which leaves you questioning when you started to look like Charlize Thereon in Monster. Or who your friends are. Or if that Wiccan shit you tried as a Freshman would actually work.

Basically, I realized I'm horribly vain. And now my gym membership is actually getting used. And my ass hurts, because I guess there's actually muscle in there and not jelly as Beyonce had led me to believe. (She may also be on my list.)

I don't think this post has any real relevance. I mainly just want to drink a bottle of wine and eat one of those tacos made out of Doritos.

But I won't. And that my friends, is called willpower.

Suck on that, Zuckerberg.