Post title from How to Build a Girl by Caitlin Moran. Which you should read ASAP. Post image is just me, y’know, thoughtfully composing this post. Yeah. Resemblance to Carson McCullers entirely coincidental. Nope. Really me.
Correct: image chosen at random, simply because I like the picture.
Sorry I’ve been rotten at updating lately. This post has been in draft form for who-knows-how long. I’m still trying to find a work/non-work time balance and am trying (key word: trying) to at least some ducks in something like a row.
This is pretty much what I’ve got going, though. But I like rubber duckies! (as everyone of– ahem– “a certain age” begins to sing “Rubber Duckie, You’re the One”)
File this under “shocking revelations” (perhaps on TMZ?), but I never had any career counseling, career aptitude tests, etc. I know, I know. Hard to believe. Some of us just know we were born to sit on our butts and veg.
Undated. Yet proof that I have always known my calling. Tramps like us, baby we were born . . . to sit.
Why do you have to go and make things so complicated? [you are very welcome for the earworm, courtesy of the 90s]
I’m not dating myself with these songs, am I? But I don’t know of anyone who’s put it better in the time since . . .
So here’s where I career-counsel myself and look at some available options.
I am not. I mean professionally. I mean tulle, taffeta, glitter: the works. I need to practice throwing shade.
I started contemplating this some time back, when I was doing an image search for Toddlers & Tiaras gifs (I was looking for pictures of kids saying snarky stuff; I actually jumped ship on this search really quickly because it was so depressing– I’ve never seen the show and was picturing regular kiddie sarcasm, not what I got).
Do I have what it takes?
Clearly, she’s been spending quality time with Captain Howdy. Paging the Exorcist. NEXT.
Sufficiently gendered? (I tried not to gender Alice, but it didn’t work out.) NEXT.
Weave insurance? I’m nonviolent. NEXT.
Okay, jacking up on Mountain Dew seems reasonable. I’ll file this one away.
This kid’s dead-serious expression kills me. He looks like he’s in the confession booth.
Please stage an intervention for this kid, stat.
This would be why I quit my search for those particular images. I think I can rule out pancake makeup, fancy dresses, and Aqua Net [I remember the blue and white can on my grandmother’s dresser– do they even make that anymore?]. Perhaps it’s because I never got a childhood start?
So how do later-in-lifers approach this?
Hello, I’m Maggie. I like . . . cats, books, and coffee. I will now read some of my tweets, which should clarify what I don’t like. Get comfortable . . .
There are games that don’t? That’s a serious question.
I’m not sure I could even be ironic about it. Sigh. Strike this option off the list.
I love Little Miss Sunshine (which is one way to guarantee a movie will not be on Netflix: I love it). And what does that kid have? Super role models and people cheering her on! Can I handle that?
Grandpa is a great role model! So he gets a happy ending . . . oh, wait.
Maybe if I sit really, really still and cover my mouth with BOTH hands, I can pull “normal” off?
Sentence #1: sad, but true. Sentence #2: Why not?
This seems like a viable career for a philosophy major. I definitely have that huge Platonic dialogues book . . . somewhere.
Oh, no, this NEVER went through my head at ANY time while I was teaching!
This reminds me very much of my intro to philosophy course. After it, I swore I wouldn’t take any more . . . and here I am today. My name is Maggie . . .
Bonus philosophy comic! This is how I show you I care!
QED. So the Socratic path is out.
Oh, yes. I just remember that I dislike Socrates intensely, for quite a variety of reasons. I’d be okay with being sentenced to die for impiety and corrupting the youth, though.
Time to go order that hemlock-tini before last call. [This seems very Sex and the City. I mean, I’ve never actually seen it, but it sounds right?]
This one isn’t really my idea. I’ve kind of forgotten exactly how this came up, but I was either reciting or singing a Bob Dylan song (it’s safe to assume I’d gone on far, far longer than I should have). The person I was with finally said they had never actually understood half of what was being said in whatever I was singing, and further experimentation proved that I can usually get what he’s saying (yes, this is the excitement level of my life).
Therefore: I propose that, much like an ASL interpreter, I follow him around on his Never Ending tour, translating phrases like “ehorhgorh orhgorhoh rhorehoh hneornhonrh” for the audience. This is a completely viable idea, right?
This message needs broadcasting.
The video in which he provides his own interpretation. I could do SO much better. (note Ginsberg on left, back)
As are many of his song lyrics. (Ginsberg again, left)
One of the most crucial moments ever, man, and you can barely hear it on the bootleg. (this concert moment has been covered here before, because, no, I’m not obsessed)
Does he “sound” angry– or do you *understand* the words? I’m here to help!
. . . and here’s where I come in!
Yep. This one’s going on the list. Should be really easy to get my people (that would be Alice) in touch with his people, right?
My secretary/agent/Girl Friday. What can I say: she’s a professional.
HAIR MAGAZINE MODEL/TRENDSETTER
Just throwing this out there, but you know those hairstyle magazines you see in the grocery store? I’m stylin’ with the best of them.
The “Classic Lynch.”
The “Drugs, Man” Cave.
The “Role Model.”
The “Hi, I Had a Rough Night! Also, I Have No Shame because I Haven’t Had Coffee!”
The explosive rat’s nest could become a thing. How do you find a stylist if you are not a Kardashian? Also putting this one on the list.
So what has worked, historically? I have a small box of old photos (technically: an ancient Cover Girl plastic box that I think is supposed to be for jewelry; it has a photo insert in the top, presumably for your beau or besties. Mine is the Wolfe’s angel gravestone— completely normal teenager!).
Let’s face it: a true pole dancer is born, not made. And when you’re a true pole dancer, the world is your pole. And when you’re from, uh, where I’m from, shoes are just not necessary for this.
My great-grandmother’s house? Looks like some great technique there, particularly in the way I appear to be flat-handed banging the keys and have my eyes closed. A kid messing around? No. An experimental performer.
Well . . . maybe I’ll just hold these in reserve. While I continue to keep this couch cushion warm.
BLAUGE À PART
No, I do not know why this has moved to French headings, except it’s after 1 AM, and the coffeepot has run dry.
If couch-warming falls through, I need a fallback, right? So here we go with most realistic option #2:
And of course I mean the Sartre part.
From How to Grow Up, by Michelle Tea: “I am someone whose path to adulthood is not a clear A to B, a straight line through life. My path is more like A, B, back to A, but it’s a different A this time, and now B looks so different from my time back at A– and whoa, here’s C, what a trip! I’m a grown up!”