I'm Not a Businessman, I'm a BUSINESS, MAN!

I talked to my friend Madeline today (Yay! She has a new blog! Check it out: Reckless Reading) and we came up with a business plan. We're going to make something and then we're going to sell that something. I'm not going to say what it is, because I don't want you thieves to steal our idea. Also, we're stealing the idea from someone else, and I'm not prepared to deal with any legal ramifications just yet. But the point is, we've got a plan and we're going to do it and then we're going to make a zillion dollars. I will say that it involves a lot of crafting, and everyone knows I'm crafty.

Anyway, mere minutes after figuring this out with Madeline, I got an email from my dad. It was a link to an article about 10 people who made a million dollars by the time they were 25 - like, say, Mark Zuckerberg. Well, Dad, I hate to break it to you, but despite my youthful glow and my affinity for using adolescent slang, I am not 25. I missed that Millionaire Mark, and by quite a ways. But my dad, God love him, is insistent that at least one of his kids becomes an overnight millionaire. None of us is sure exactly why, but in my case, I'm sure it has everything to do my English degree and lack of a savings account.

Around Christmas, my dad wanted us kids to make a viral video. There wasn't really a concrete IDEA or CONCEPT, but he just wanted us to put our minds together and come up with the next "hide ya kids, hide ya wife" video and cash in. Needless to say, we didn't do it. We're not exactly "viral" material. Plus, can you even MAKE MONEY on those videos? I kind of doubt it. But to my dad's credit, seriously how hard could it be to make a video like this: Annoying Orange.

See, here's where my dad and I go our separate ways. First of all, he's hopelessly optimistic in the abilities of his kids, whereas I'm surprised if I remember to brush my teeth at night. My dad sees something good and thinks "Why couldn't we do that?" whereas I think "This could be cooler if I had a vodka tonic". My dad DOES things. I, on the other hand, need someone to tell me exactly what to do, and then I do it and the results are average. Sure I have my creative moments, but my talents are solely in writing snarky comments about celebrities and my sub-par grooming habits.

Example: I had a poster I stole from my dad found in college, of the iconic Farrah Fawcett. I love that poster. I wanted to hang it up, but I didn't have a frame. So I cut the cardboard out of a huge moving box and Scotch taped mounted the poster on top of the cardboard. Voila! Acceptable. My DAD, on the other hand is quite the opposite. My mom saw a big piece of geometric art in a Pottery Barn catalog. She loved it, and she wanted it. My dad was all "Uh, it's like $450,000,000,000. And it looks like something I could make." My mom called his bluff. So what did he do? He went out and bought paint and supplies and recreated the whole damn thing. It was an incredibly accurate reproduction - like, freaky good. See? He can DO those kinds of things. He recreates works of art, I mount posters onto cracked cardboard with tape.

I have yet to start a business, or film a wildly viral video, or start Facebook. I do take the opportunity whenever possible, to remind my dad that I write a blog like, every night! Still he sends me these emails, with encouragement like "Go check out what this person did on $20 and a dream" and then say something like "Why couldn't WE do something like this?" And I'm all "But Dad, my blog...it's like, sooooooooo important!" and he's all, "I just don't get how you're going to make a million dollars with it, though."

Despite my less-than-desirable skill set when it comes to businessing (it's a word), my dad continues to have an unshakable faith in me that I can start (or help start) the next Google. I mean I can't do math, I lose interest in things quickly, and my knowledge of economics and other abstract concepts is, uh, nil. But I CAN come up with punny product names. If anything, I've got a shot at NAMING the next million dollar idea. Maybe that's what I need to do. That'll be my business. You come in with your fancy idea or product, and I'll tap my chin, lean back in my chair, and say something genius. You have an innovative knife sharpener? Blade Runner. Boom. Give me a million dollars. (Okay, so that's a horrible example, but I'm not going print my best ideas on here! I'm savin' 'em up to cash in at the patent office!)

Well, luckily Madeline is a vicious go-getter who has no patience for slacking, so the above mentioned business we're going to start is sure to be a success. I mean, IF we start it. Sorry, Madeline, but I kind of have a history of flaking once an idea has lost its luster. Just ask my dad.

Geo Says

Good gravy. How am I so exhausted every Sunday night lately? I’m old, that’s how. I had a great weekend, and as usual, it’s over too quickly. One surprising change was that Geo had an unusual amount of input of my goings on this weekend. I dismissed many of his ideas, ‘cause I’m stubborn like that, but like a broken clock, he happened to be right a couple times.

Geo Says: On Friday night, “Let’s go play Settlers of Catan at KG’s house tonight.“ I say, “No thanks. Last weekend, I spent a night playing the nerdy, albeit very fun, game, but two weekends in a row? I have a reputation to think about, yo.“ So instead of risking my very cool, very social reputation by going with him on Friday night, I stayed in and watched a movie in sweatpants with my dear friend, Pinot Noir. Is that better? I sure think so.

Geo Says: On Saturday morning, “I’m going to go hang out outside and be the dog handler for KG at his skijoring race. Wanna come?” I say, “Skijoring? WTF is that?” Skijoring consists of harnessing oneself to a dog, whilst wearing skis (the person, not the dog) and racing for over 5 miles while the dog pulls you along in the freezing cold. I say “Outside? It’s cold out, though!” Geo says, “It’ll be fun, though!” I politely decline and proceed to paint my nails and watch TV with my other roommate Sanna instead.

Geo Says: Later on Saturday, I list my Wii on Craigslist. While I have a LOT of fun playing Wii when there are a ton of games to switch between (like my parents have), I’m just not married to mine. Plus, I want an Xbox Kinect. Really Pharon? Trading one gaming system for another? Ugh…you‘re such a nerd. Anyway, Geo says I should list it at a higher price and then be prepared to negotiate. I actually listened to him on this one. I have yet to have any takers, though. I’m guessing there aren’t as many suckers out there as I had hoped. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to try.

Geo Says: On Saturday night, “Let’s go to a movie. Also, maybe you should take a shower.” I say “I feel sick”. Geo says, “It’s all in your head.” I decide to take a shower, and it actually makes me feel much better. I ask Geo what movie he wants to see, and he says “How about No Strings Attached?” I say, “Uh, that’s a chick flick rom-com. Why do you want to see that?” Then I remembered that Geo ALSO wanted to see Black Swan, which is very unlike him. But I put two and two together and figured out that Geo loves Natalie Portman (Hahahaha! I just asked Geo if it was okay to say that he loves Natalie Portman, and he’s all “Yeah it‘s fine. I do. I love her.” with the kind of reverence I save for my adoration of Kate Spade. Then he goes, “Ugh, she‘s ENGAGED? Bummer.” and I think he‘s legitimately sad about it). We go to the movie, and while I’m not the least bit surprised by the plot, I AM surprised at how much I actually liked it. I laughed out loud way too much, and too loudly, much to the annoyance of my fellow moviegoers. It was just, well, it was just what I needed. It ended happily and it didn’t make my brain hurt from having to THINK. I don’t recommend rom-coms too often, because most of the time I don’t think it‘s worth the $24 to see it on the big screen. But this one? I will tell you to go see it. Go see it in sweatpants on a freezing cold night, with zero expectations, and after a stressful day. You’ll like it. Just don’t EXPECT to like it. What? Does that make sense? Whatever.

Geo Says: On Sunday morning, Geo announces he is going skijoring himself. I say he’s obsessed. He says “You’re obsessed with hanging out with your family.” I consider this for a minute, and decide he’s actually totally right on that one. I can’t go much more than a week without seeing at least ONE member of my family. But they are awesome, and today my mom and I had planned a fun little birthday party for Peter and Prinna. We pulled out all my parents Wii games (See? I TOLD you it was fun if you have a bunch of games) and had a big ol’ gamer tournament. My family is fun, and my mom always makes way too much yummy food, so I leave full and happy. And okay, I broke one of my New Year’s Resolutions - to NOT do laundry at my parents anymore - but I knew I was going to be there all day, and I am down to my last 3 pairs of mismatched socks. But okay, I actually AM totally obsessed with my family. He got that right.

Geo Says: Tonight, Geo asks me if I want to go out and get some ice cream and run to the grocery store. I silently pointed to my sweatpants and my full tummy, and he just sighed. But this time, HE followed MY lead. He plopped down on the couch next to me and keeps asking me what my blog is about tonight. I say: It’s about everything you’ve said to me this weekend. He looks at me quizzically and asks “What did I say?” Oh Geo, what didn’t you say?

Toe Up

Last night, Liz and Kim and I spur of the moment decided to cheer ourselves up with manis and pedis! Eeee!! OMG! We are such girls! We talked about our feelings, the problems about men (will they ever learn?!), and our unusual love for drinking German beer out out glass boots at Gasthof's. Hey! What a coincidence! We've also decided to throw Kim's birthday AT GASTHOF'S! Yay! Here's to Das Boot and flickers of snuff! If you're not sure what that is, forget about it. It's something that needs to be experienced to be loved. Oh well...we ended the night with a glass of wine and pretty toes. (Just wrote "glass of toes and pretty wine" accidentally...or not.)

So, we get to the nail salon - one of those little strip mall places. Ladies, - and high-maintenence men - you know what I'm talking about. There's a mini shrine to an elephant in the corner, the walls are painted neon green, and people buzz around mopping the floor behind me and screaming at me to "Sign in!! Sign in!! What services?? PICK COLORS!". Ahh...such a relaxing atmosphere. I stared up at this enormous sign listing services like "Acr Fill, Nail Take Off, and Both Gel" and went ahead with the relatively straight-forward French Toe. Then the nerves started goin'.

In high school, my mom knew how psyched I was for my high school prom. I had the hot dress, the cute date, the best friends, everything. So she surprised me with a manicure and pedicure at the FANCY salon. I was ecstatic! I had never had a pedicure before, and sat back in the heated seats and enjoyed the soothing music, the calming colors in the room, and lilac scented eye pillow. Then, horror of all horrors, this Demon of Torture started, like, RUBBING MY FEET! She had all these crazy tools and devices of foot destruction. I writhed in my heated seat, and continually reflexively snapped my foot away from that demon like a dozen times. Finally, I gave up and stopped that evil pedicurist. "Please, you just...you just can't touch my feet anymore. You have to stop. I'm sorry. Can you just paint them without touching them?" The poor lady obliged, and a mere 5 minutes after my appointment started, I was tucking my tootsies under the heater. Sorry Mom. Turns out, I totally wasted that gift. BUT! My manicure looked bomb!

Since then, I don't get pedicures. I just don't. I can't stand the stress and anxiety of constantly resisting the urge to kick my exfoliated foot in someone's face, thereby giving them a bloody nose and resulting in a trip to the Emergency Room. Total day-ruiner. But then a few years ago, my dear friend Claire devised a wonderful plan. She called the mall nail place (which we still go to), asked them to stay open an hour later, and she'd come in with 8 girls and guaranteed a big boost in business that night. The best part? We got to bring WINE. The first time we did this, I think I was on my third glass before gingerly dipping my toes into the soapy water. I leaned back and in a haze of wine and laughter, got my very first pedicure.

Those are the only circumstances under which I've gotten pedicures. In total? I've probably gotten like 5 in my life. So last night, when I went with Kim and Liz, I was nervous again. We went during regular hours, which meant No Wine. Which meant Pharon Constantly Snapped her Feet Away From the Lady. But you guys? I MADE IT! I made it through and came outta there with some pretty toes and a BAC of 0.0. Then came another part I usually liked to block out. The payment. Turns out, when I chose my service, I made my choice based on the Worlds Biggest Sign and List of Services. Silly me - I should have KNOWN those prices were specials for HIGH SCHOOL students. She's all "Okay, $32." I'm all "Uh, it says right there $12." The woman turns and points to a faded, 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper that just barely reads "SPA PEDICURE: $32.00." I looked at the woman, like, Are you kidding me? She looked back at me like You Sucker. So I said "Uh, I'm a high school student." She gave me a $3 discount because she thought that that was soooooooooooo funny. Rude. And Awesome.

Well now what? Kim and Liz and I all wore flip flops to the bar after our appointments for the above-mentioned girl talk, wine and awesome chicken nachos, and it was the most refreshing hour of my life. My tooties were in FLIP FLOPS again! No more scratchy wool socks and stinky winter boots. But then I got home and slipped immediately into socks in order to stave off the almost-inevitable hypothermia that comes with living in World's Coldest House. So, exactly like 5 people saw my pedicure. Remind me why I put myself through that only to shove my feet into socks the second I got home?

Oh well, I like 'em. I guess those brief 10 minutes in the morning if when I take a shower will have to suffice. Now I just need to be on the lookout for those rancid diseases people get at mall salons like that. Yay! What a refreshing, relaxing, simple experience!

Dudes: Do me a solid and have yourselves a disgustingly fun weekend, okay? And if you see my brother Peter or my sister Prinna, make sure you wish 'em a happy birthday!! Happy Birthday, Peter! Happy Birthday, Prinna!

Story Hour!

Okay, quick explanatory paragraph. I’ve been missing the consistency of Wednesday Winners. I’ll admit that it was kind of easy to at least know the SUBJECT of a blog before mindlessly staring at a blank Word document. But Wednesday Winners, much like my addiction to noodles and ranch dressing, had to go. Then last night, Geo was talking to me about a podcast he likes. It’s a dude who basically tells a story every week. Or more accurately, a PART of a story. Then every week he continues the story from where he left off the week before. I like that a lot. And in wake of realizing I only write, eh hem, Non-Fiction, I decided that fictional storytelling is something I could use some work on. So, I’m going to give this a shot. I’m going to start a story today, and then next week, I’ll pick it back up and continue with the next chapter. Like this idea? Hate this idea? Have something else you need to get off your chest? Slap it in the Comments, friends.

And so it begins...

Louann clung to the side of the row boat, relieving herself in the lake. She noticed the chip on her nails and thought, "As soon as I'm done running from the law, I've got to get a manicure". She finished up and hauled herself back in her little boat. As she sat thumbing through the files she managed to keep dry in the boat, she briefly considered what she would be doing on an average Wednesday night. You know, had she NOT been currently on the run from the law. She could almost taste the caviar and champagne she'd, no doubt, be enjoying at her parents castle at the top of a lush green hill. She missed her pet unicorn, Corny, and a tear slipped down her chin.

As soon as Louann started paddling to the deserted island in the middle of the lake, she panicked. The memories pummeled her brain, relentless. Flashes of blood, the broken Xbox, a recent sale at Anthropologie she was missing out on, and Xavier's desperate eyes. He had crossed a line, no doubt, but Louann knew she also had gone too far when she did what she did. She paddled harder, knowing that dusk was approaching. As she drifted silently to the shore, her paddle slipped out of her hand and into the murky, pee-filled water. Louann secured her boat first, and headed back to the water to retrieve the paddle. Her bedazzled nightgown floated effortlessly around her. Carefully, she reached into the dark water and felt around for the paddle. Her trembling hand found the paddle just as a water snake (snakes live in water, right?!) slithered up her naked leg. She smacked at the snake with her paddle, over and over until the snake slipped into the water. Louann quickly realized she broke her own leg, and the snake was not a snake, but a strand of seaweed.

Louann had never graduated from college. Her high school diploma was a copy of Bouanne Reynolds' diploma, cleverly whited-out and copied at the corner Kinko's. No one could accuse Louann of being too smart. Her mind was on men and money, and despite the warnings of her financial staff, money had brought her happiness, and the men had brought the money. And also syphilis. Louann also had syphilis because she really got around.

As Louann waded through the used hypodermic needles that bounced back and forth against the shore with the waves, she briefly wondered where her charmed life went wrong. Could it have been the murder? Maybe, Louann could not know. She noted the broken bone sticking out her leg and sighed. Louann laid back, staring at the stars, wondering if broken bones are contagious. To be safe, she took her bra and covered up her bone. In an effort to tie off the contagious germs, she inadvertently reset the broken bone and passed out from the pain.

Her dreams were uneasy. They drifted from the peaceful memories of her pony and diamond-studded toaster oven, her purses made out of $50 bills, and her staff of 130, to flashbacks from a few nights ago. She tossed and turned, and in her dreams, she thought briefly that she had caused all the damage. Her dreams turned even more ugly as she imagined her perfect teeth crumbling out of her gums, and being naked in front of her high school Latin class, and being at her house but it wasn't really her house, it was kind of like Seth's house from elementary school, but there were like lions everywhere holding umbrellas...but when Xavier appeared (in the body of a chimpanzee), she woke up with a start. Louann knew what she had to do.

Security System

Oh Pharon. Pharon, Pharon, Pharon. I’m quite disappointed in you tonight. In lieu of doing the responsible thing of tuning in to watch the State of the Union address, you eagerly turned on the Family Channel to watch the much-anticipated movie, Mean Girls 2. And shortly after that, I saw you drop a chunk of $9 cheese on the floor, pick off the hair, and continue eating it. For shame, young lady. For Shame.

Instead of eating rug cheese and watching the only movie on the planet that would be better WITH Lindsay Lohan in it, I SHOULD be at Liz’s house, chatting about life and drinking wine. I made a decision though to stay in and paint my nails tonight (much to Geo’s appreciation) and try to just chillax. Do people still say “chillax“? Probs not. Oh well, I’m retro now. I’ve been all anxious for the past week. Like, not just stressed, but crazy-in-the-head anxious. I don’t know where it came from, but I just haven’t been able to shake it. Tonight, though, I’ve focused solely on myself and trying to get myself to calm down already. Hence the relationship I have forged tonight with hairy cheese and a bad movie. Not a stressor in the bunch.

You know when you’re feeling crappy, and like there’s only one thing that makes you feel better? For some it’s tea, or yoga, or a stiff cocktail. In my case, it’s my childhood blanket. It used to be vivid pinks and polka dots with Strawberry Shortcake smack dab in the middle. These days it's brownish with no discernible design of any kind, it's ripped up, torn, tied back together in some places, and could function better as a headband than an actual blanket. But it calms me down and makes me feel like I’m 5 years old again. The major problemo with that is that I actually still sleep with my blanket every night. Sexy, right? Whatevs. I scrunch it between my fingers, which lets me fidget in concentrated doses. And I also like to smell it. Not like “sniff” it, but bury my nose in it and smell it reeeeeeal good. In high school, my dad walked past my bedroom and saw me inhaling my blanket and scrunching it between my fingers, and he just like sighed and said “You look like a mental patient.”

So I tried to tone down my reliance on my blanket in college. But when I lived with Kim, she discovered my (very) dirty secret. She picked up the filthy, flimsy fabric between her thumb and pointer fingertip and sneered “What IS this?” I snatched it away from her and snarled “It’s my BLANKET. GOD!” Then I scurried off into the corner of my bed to hide away my Precious. Yes, just like that troll doll guy in Lord of the Rings. After that, Kim would laugh and laugh and laugh as I tore our apartment apart looking for my blanket that she had maliciously hidden from me. I’d find it eventually, and then take it and try and shove it in Kim’s mouth to punish her.

These days, it’s Geo I have to worry about tearing me apart from my security blanket. He’s seen it. In fact, I think KIM was the one to introduce them. He freaked out like it was a blanket made out of marriage proposals and snakes. “Oh God, that’s disgusting! You SLEEP with this?” My initial rage at his, his, nerve to insult me like that subsided quickly into shame and embarrassment. He noticed my quick descent into humiliation and said, “Well, no. I mean, like, it’s, uh, cute, um that you still sleep with your, ah, blankey”. I slowly perked up and pulled it out from the pillow I’d hidden it under. I kept pulling and pulling and pulling, and the blanket kept coming and coming and coming. I sniffled and smiled a little, and looked up at Geo and said “Heh heh…look how LONG it is!” Geo doubled over laughing and repeating like a parrot, “Look how LONG it is…look how LONG it is!” I laughed and decided not to shove the blanket into his mouth to punish HIM. Yet.

For now, my blanket is safe. Well, not “safe” in the healthy way - I can’t wash it or it will disintegrate - but “safe” in the I-Know-No-One-Will-Steal-And-Hide-It way. Although, Geo got me this super soft teddy bear, hoping it would ween me off my blanket. What he didn‘t see coming was that the blanket and bear go perfectly together. So now I’ve got a team backing me up when I feel like shizzah.

Which is definitely going to be useful tonight. I’ve already felt like a mental patient lately, so why not go all out and just compulsively sniff and fidget with my blanket while I rock back and forth relax? Oh man, I hope my dad doesn’t read that…

Hold That Thought

I spent a blissful 45 minutes on hold tonight. Wait, did I say blissful? I meant Excruciating. It was the worst kind of hold music, too. That tune-less, high-pitched orchestra song that just goes on and on and on and on, with brief periods of interruptions from the "helpful" automated woman, encouraging me to stay on the line as my turn would come just as soon as the next operator becomes available. She may as well have said "Yup, you're still on hold. I don't feel your pain because I am but a computer and lack human emotion." I'd rather she mind her own business and let me enjoy the horrible, yet consistent music.

I'm definitely preferable to having a countdown when I'm on hold. You know, the "Thank you for holding," - oh, well you're quite welcome - "There are..." pause for even more robotic voice - "seven.teen. Callers in front of you." I like that a lot, because I look forward to hearing that strange woman. She comes on and it's like playing the lottery. I'm all "ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod! Am I close? Am I close!?!" It's just a much better use of my time on the phone. Then there's the rare time when you'll go from like the 17th person on hold to the 12th in one period. It's times like that when I pity the poor folks who couldn't hack the hold. That, or they just had a wicked quick question, and if that was the case I would guess they asked the kind of question that could have been easily answered online. Either way, they are schmucks and I reap the rewards.

You know what I'd like to hear when I'm on hold? Other people's calls. One, it'd make you think twice about calling with something stupid or personal which, okay, could be a bad thing arguably. But think of all the juicy personal problems of other people you'd be privy to! Awesome, and possibly super hilarious. I would love to hear the ONE call, to like Comcast, from the person who DOESN'T have the power turned on on their TV. "Oh, I have to turn it on? Okay! Yup, that seems to have done the trick. Thanks!" Dummy. And two, who knows how many people on hold have the same question I have? If I were #214 in line on hold, I'd be willing to bet a nice chunk of change that the person at #3 has a similar, if not the exact same, question as me. See? Everyone's a winner.

Okay, I get the theory behind hold music, though. It lets me know my call is still connected, keeps me paying attention by every once in awhile playing an awesome instrumental version of "Rich Girl", and it calms me down usually. I hate being on hold, but that darn cathartic flute solo eases my frazzled nerves every time. So, yeah. I get while we all have to suffer through it. It, much like PMS, is a necessary evil.

But aren't we far enough along technologically that Hold Music is simply archaic? I don't think I've even used my phone to talk on it for like weeks. And yet, when I finally do make a call, it's like calling 1988. "Where we're going we don't NEED roads." Yes, that was a Back to the Future reference. Love it. We're all used to instant information, you know? So hold music is just, well it's just DUMB. I can't even believe I'm writing about it. It just totally caught me off guard. I was on hold for SO long, and the music was SO bad I just couldn't wrap my head around it. I wish I had the capability to video phone customer service places, and then instead of hold music, they'd have like Hold Movies. Or Hold Family Guy Episodes. That would, well, that would just be tops.

Geez, even WRITING about Hold Music has calmed my nerves a little bit. I went from stressed and worried to mind-numbingly bored. I guess we'll call it cheap therapy for now. A quick fix for a broke nutjob. I suggest next time you find yourself traveling back in time and waiting on hold, you try and enjoy the forced slow down. It's like watching Sixteen Candles on VHS. Not ideal, but a good way to slow down and enjoy some Spandau Ballet.

Don't Call Us...

Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of rejection. Not since losing the 4th grade spelling bee on the word “tongue” have I felt so…inadequate. I worked on some submissions for these random online freelance writing things this weekend. Yeah, because writing a blog every night just isn’t enough, apparently. I guess I just like the whole “school-y” aspect of it. You know? Writing for a grade or something. That’s probably why I’m not taking the rejections so seriously. I don’t need to work on more writing, but I just kind of want to. I already love writing a blog, and I love that very awesome, yet pseudo-uncomfortable, high when someone I hardly know is like “Oh my God! I love your blog!” It’s kind of like someone reading your diary and being like “Hey, I read it and I liked it. Your shortcomings and unnatural love for making yourself sound like an idiot are really pleasurable to read.” So, I guess that’s why I’m trying to get me some more of that.

Okay, so my first few submissions didn’t go well. For the first one, I got some picture prompt. I was supposed to look at the picture, and write like 100 words about it. My humor doesn’t translate well in that short of space. So, the picture was of a girls fingers hanging on to the sides of a rowboat. I thought it would be positively hilarious to write a quick story about a girl who had to pee in the lake. I submitted it, crossed my arms and sat back to enjoy the acclaim. Unfortunately, after rereading it a couple minutes later, I realized that instead of being funny, it came off gross. Perverted almost. I laughed all over again when I read the “Thanks but not thanks” email from them, because I couldn’t help but imagine some dude reading that and being like “Uh, is this chick serious?”

Then a couple automated rejections later, I found a place that I really thought I had a chance at. I pasted in one of my blog posts under “Writing Samples“, and then really let my hair down in the “Experience” section. I wrote about my college degree in English, my focus on writing, and then ended it with a mockingly elaborate recollection of writing a poem about my grandma in 4th grade, which was chosen to be read in front of the whole school. It seemed super funny at the time. Perfect. You know? Like WHO would write about something from 4th grade under Experience in Writing? No one! Because 1) That’s not actual experience, and 2) it’s NOT ACTUAL EXPERIENCE. So I spent the next 5 blissful minutes laughing at myself, thinking of how funny I think I am, when I got a response from the organization. Apparently, in the time it took me to pat myself on the back, they had read it and been like “Good lord no. Send this person a rejection letter a.s.a.p.” So that rejection was a little hurtful. A little. I found the immediacy of the rejection and vague explanation of my insufficient writing experience a little funny, though.

So I started a new label in my Gmail for all the letters I get from people who don‘t quite appreciate my potty humor and need to sell myself short: “FAN” LETTERS. It’s just a titch less pathetic than “REJECTIONS”. And despite the fact that I’ve been using that label more frequently than I’d like to lately, it’s kind of comforting. It’s like I’m back in school, and I’ve spent like 5 minutes studying for an exam. I mean, do I really expect NOT to get an F? Silly rabbit. Plus, this all fits very nicely into my plan of being a struggling writer. Yup. Ever since like 5th grade, I’ve had a very specific life goal. Struggling Writer. Not an actual writer, or a successful writer. Nope, I wanted the very romantic version. The late nights writing, the jotting down overly emotional thoughts on scraps of paper and then lighting them on fire, the laughing crying over a typewriter - yes, a typewriter - and the constant rejection letters. It’s all a part of the dream, people.

I really like that I’m not at the totally BITTER phase of this writing process (yet). You know, the hurling the computer across the room after getting another “Thanks but no thanks” email. The cursing of names, the screaming at the injustice of a world that doesn’t appreciate my style yet. That part is all so cliché, and very UNromantic. Sheesh, it’s not like I’m Van Gogh or something. I write about how much I hate Angelina Jolie and what I really think about vanity plates. Not exactly Macbeth, folks.

Oh well, the Fan Letter folder is far from full. And until I get more rejections than spam and J.Crew newsletters, I’ll count myself lucky to have no fear of rejection. After that, though, watch out for flying laptops.