VirginiaEddie

Lately I like to get drunk. I've always gotten drunk. Stinking, sloppy, roudy, raunchy drunk ever since I was old enough to lie to my parents about where I was going and what I had done. Say 15. But lately, at 31, living in a one bedroom apartment with a boyfriend and barely paying my bills and mentally dodging the 20,000 dollars of debt I owe to department stores , a rum and coke tastes pretty damn good at 1 p.m. It tastes almost, debt free. Ahhh. I'm talking about weekends of course. I'm no longer one of the cool kids who has her weeks off.

That's right, my 8-4 job keeps me sober during banking hours. But today it occured to me when my boss was walking towards me with her disappointed face, would work be better drunk? It doesn't matter because I wouldn't be able to pull it off. One second I'd be slipping rum into my soda, the next I'd be laughing and talking to people that ignore me because they have corner offices or I'd remove that button down sweater you're supposed to wear over a tank top, or maybe I'd even order a pizza to my desk. I don't know. I'd probably fall out of my ergnomic chair and take too long to get back up because I'd be paralyzed by laughter. Either way, you get the point, it would be awesome.

It would be nothing like today. My boss, let's call her Stephanie, met Fidel, the man who moves people's offices at the company. He's nice, intelligent and atleast six feet tall with muscles. I'm 5 '2 and 110 pounds on a fat day, but apparently much more qualified to move her things from her old office to her new office. All by myself.

While Stephanie stayed on the phone in her Nanette Lepore suit, I trudged in and out of her corner office with poster boards, or boxes or a stack of binders. These are the moments when you're life flashes before your eyes. Forget near death experiences, it's these slow, drawn out about degrading experiences that really make you realize how amazing you are. I thought of it all; my master's degree in English that I thought useless until I decided it made me too good to transport boxes. Or my fabulous boyfriend who tells me how smart I am. Yes, I am way too smart to be a facilities worker. I even thought about my mother and how she made all natural dinners for us and was always there when we got home from school. It's these things that keep you from being taken advantage of. 

I say no to rape. It was 5 p.m. when I decided to leave without saying goodbye. That's an hour later than my schedule requests, and an hour closer to when I have to be in the office to test an obscenely early video conference so that when she shows up France and New York are already there, on camera.

Hopefully by the end of the day, after I've taught myself to do more things impossible, I will have a chance to talk to Stephanie, mano y mano. I want to tell her that I have a college degree, not a GED, that I start night design classes at SMCC, and even maybe that my father is an architect.

I'm thinking there comes a time when you have got to make yourself known. Otherwise no one will ever know you. You have to explain to people who you are so that they don't mistake you for someone else, or even worse, no one. Here goes a nothing. A shot please.

For the past three months I’ve been job hunting. I don’t know about you but when I’m in pained pursuit of a job I have a hard time relaxing, or relaxing, or relaxing. I cry a lot. I feel guilty when I eat a nice dinner. I only turn on the TV at night. I’m hard on myself. I’m rude to my boyfriend. I’m not alone. I’m not free. Money lives in a place in my mind like a moldy supervisor. It’s shacked up next to other concepts that used to be more interesting, like poetry or Chanel or indie rock. I don’t have enough money. I want more money. I used to have money. My parents have money. How much money will I need, and etc. It’s quite boring. I want to keep designing clothes, but fabric costs money. I need a job in the industry so I can learn the ropes, but the economy is packed tight. There’s no room to let anyone else in to get some of its money. Money, Money, Money. The word starts to look silly the more you see it, the more you say it. Money is for parking tickets lately and never for a new handbag. That’s what I hate most about money. The way it defines what one wants and what one needs. The way there’s never enough. The way it seems to dictate my every move.

Money could care less that I love fashion. I have half-heartedly accepted Forever 21 into my life. But money won’t even stop there. When a girl is jobless, knockoffs are too much. Now fashion is something I long for more than money. My job hunt for a something where I can be around designers or designs or buyers or sellers is punctuated by my want for new clothes. It’s sick really. I mean, people are dying and being tortured in other countries and I’m sitting here in my boyfriend’s apartment in Beverly Hills whining about not having a new handbag. My stomach turned when I saw a pair of Balenciaga sunglasses yesterday in a magazine. It’s like I’m genetically programmed to crave fashion. Body hurts, much touch Prada…

My mother gave me money to have my hair done. But the girl messed up my hair. She took my money and messed up my hair and said that was the best she could do. That’s what I hate about money. It talks, but silently. I silently hate her. She’s just a girl who’s not that good at her job, but now I hate her. She took my money. Money makes people nasty. How are relationships going these days with the Dow Jones down? Aren’t stereotypical housewives everywhere furious? I would be. Personally, I miss having expensive dinners with the man who was courting me. Now I eat store bought pizza with the guy who calls me his girlfriend. These two things both have their greatness, but saving money is no fun. I want to feel raw Toro melting in my mouth. I want to give money to homeless people again. These are the things of life. Instead I stay in, like a big fat geek. I can’t go out there. Everything calls my name. Please hire me, Universe, into the fashion industry. I need money.

I meant to visit Los Angeles two months ago, not stay here. That was in late January. Sarah convinced me to stay, literally on two bended knees, and I relented. The place is great. I lived here for four years before. There’s no arguing. Los Angeles is sunny, fun and full of naughty things to get your nose into. I just really wanted New York City, but one thing led to another and my sister was shipping my stuff in boxes from the east coast.

Now since Sarah and I had a falling out, after probably doing too many naughty things, I moved in with this new guy. It sounds awful, I know. I have never wanted to be the kind of girl who needs a boyfriend for a place to stay. I’m usually the girl who dates the loser, not the actual loser. But alas, the tables have turned and I’m the one in the highchair.

There are certain problems I have with the situation. 1. I don’t have my own apartment. 2. I don’t have my apartment and 3. I live with my boyfriend. I didn’t even premeditate a serious relationship, let alone a live-in one. The other night we came back from dinner, with some old friend of his and as I’m changing he’s yelling some question about a receipt he found on the coffee table.

“You’re reading my receipts?” I yelled back, my sweatpants half on, my mouth fully open.

“Well, it was sitting on the coffee table,” he replied.

What the hell kind of rationale is that? Since when did receipts qualify as reading material? He works 50 hours a week, and still wants to use his leftover energy on squinting over 4 inch by 2 inch scraps of paper? Now, it’s one thing to read a receipt, but to take it a step further and inquire about a fucking receipt. I don’t remember, as I write this, where the receipt was from, but since I haven’t spent more than eight dollars in any given day on account of I’m broke, I really doubt it was an interesting purchase. Not to mention, it was my purchase. He hasn’t given me his credit card. All I know is if ever read a receipt, my next reaction would be, “Holy shit, I just read a receipt, what am I some kind of loser?” not “Hmmm, let me find out about this one…”

I don’t know what my point is, except that I have a boyfriend, and I really didn’t want one. And that I still don’t have my own apartment, and I really, really want one. Hopefully by next month this can happen, but I guess what I’m wondering is, what happens to the boyfriend I used to live with? How do we go from 100% to slightly less at warp speed? Maybe I should ask him since he’s so quick on the draw.

I know you've missed me. So I am going to do a really deep, malevolent, enlightening, confusing and awe-inspiring journal entry this week. I've been smoking cigarettes on my boyfriend's balcony in very little clothing doing a whole lot of thinking. Life is good. If you are good to others, it will come back to you, ten fold. The goodness will hit you so hard it almost knocks the wind out of you. But be good to others for the wonderful feeling of it, not because of the possible return. You can't fake being good. The universe is not an idiot.

As soon as I get situated and my pictures hooked up to my (and when I say "my" I mean "Hunters") computer VirginiaEddie will be back in full swing. I love you people. Thank you for reading my blimey slimey blog!

--Emily Sunderland, tiny little worshipper of the universe