C'est la vie? C'est MA vie

GAWD I hate this whiny bitch. I mean, it could be because the writing isn't that good (let's call it repetitive in an uninspired way and uninspired in a repetitive way) or it could be because technically I haven't been 23 for 27 days or it could be that I very actively made life choices to avoid living my way into these cliches. (Fear is an excellent motivator.) But the part that really gets me is the cheesiness at the end. Seriously? Neither you nor your audience deserve this coddling, and you haven't for nearly two decades. Get your shit together. Or at least take on your shit with a fresh approach.

Speaking of dealing with metaphysical angst in new and exciting ways, the Picasso Museum reopened here in Paris after an (unexpectedly long) five year renovation. (Now that's what I call a transition.) Picasso,"the insider who was always an outsider," lived in Paris for most of his adult life and though I've never seen a curator call him Parisian, he was certainly in conversation with these enclaves of otherness that populated the city of lights (all the way from gas to electric) in the 20th century. And it's kind of funny that we associate artists like Picasso and Hemingway and Stein with this City when their experience was probably closer to an occupation than an immersion. They hung out with other expats and did expaty things and sure, they patronized local businesses, but cafe creme and vin rouge do not a Parisian make.

And I'm really no different. There is a constant struggle...struggle is the wrong word, it implies that my life is hard...a constant tug between blending in and embracing the aspects of my otherness that make Paris all the more exciting. When I see a picturesque alley curving into a softly lit corner, can I take a picture? Do I want a picture? Should I pretend that this is normal, or feed my own aesthetic delight? At the end of the day there are no wrong answers, and the choice is really mine to make what I want of the experience.

And here's the secret: that is not a condition particular to Parisian photo ops. As a member of the universe's most coddled generation I feel like, much to my disappointment, it might be necessary to remind my peers that 23 (and 22 and 24 and all the way up, as high as you care to go) is not an incurable disease. Your early 20s are not an illness or temporary psychosis or punishment. This epoch of our lives is a boundless realm of opportunities, which can either be squandered whining and watching netflix or experienced at the hands of the world that exists beyond the triple locked doors of our tiny apartments. (Note: there is in fact room for both, it may even be a necessity, I'm not ruling it out)

Well you make it sound so easy...like I have complete control over my own destiny, like I'm the only one to blame if shit's not going the way I want it to...Well...yea! A little extreme, but hate to break it to you sunshine, all the excuses people have been making for you are now being showered upon the next generation of over/under achievers. So put on some Sara Bareilles, and then some Beyonce, dust yourself off, and be honest with yourself about your life. Acknowledge the things that make you happy. Revel in them. Change the things that don't. Yes, CHANGE! You can do it. Relatively young dogs learn new tricks all the time. ALL the time. And once you accept this challenge the frightening yet empowering truth comes out, which is that your life is not a circumstance of the universe or voo doo or your neighbors who have really loud sex while you're trying to sleep. It's just you. So make the most of it.

Netflix in moderation. Responsibility in gross. It's called growing up.

Passing the Torch (temporarily)

Hey hey party people!

I apologize for being the world's worst blogger, but if it's any consolation I'm also the world's worst daughter, friend, and student as I flounder around this post grad realm. (It's very dark. I keep bumping into things.)

But actually I've been working at a day camp and seeing a ton of people and now I'm running away to lead an international travel trip with 40 11th graders.

In the interim I am having my resident expert on the QLC (aka mi hermana) drop some knowledge bombs. Enjoy the break from radio silence.

See you in 3 weeks!

xoxo gossip squirrel

Dear Adults...shut the fuck up

1. For all intensive purposes it's still Wednesday. Don't Shoot.

2. The two pronged reason that a reminder didn't grace your inbox upon waking this morning (still not getting those? Just drop your e-mail in the "I'm Kind of a Can't Miss" box to the right) is that I started studying for the GREs last night and then proceeded to have what I can only assume was a casual panic attack about the impending mediocrity of my life.

3. The fact that I felt as if I was swimming in Jello comprised of my failures and wasted potential is of little to no consequence to y'all, and by y'all I mean the full time employed.

I'm taking the liberty to offer this rant to the gods of employment and misery (who I assume are at least twins if not the same person) on behalf of all those out there who are looking for a job, working at a dead end job, unhappy with the direction of their professional life or who are cleverly staving off these inevitable options by continuing their education. If you don't agree, I don't really care, and here's a secret for you: those gods don't really exist...


Dear Advice Offering, Know it Alls of the realm of full time employment,

Shut the fuck up. I know with certainty that your life is not perfect. That you have not figured it all out. That with the slightest examination you could honestly say you have no regrets or doubts about the way your life has unfolded. If you say I'm wrong I say take a lie detector test and talk to me then.

And I know that pretending like you have all the answers to the defenseless hoards of recent grads is comforting and reassuring to you, but it's also rude. And pretentious. And often hurtful. Please, point to the moment when you figured your whole life out and got all the answers straight?
What's that?
You're still not at that point?
Then as good as your intentions are do me a favor and share your benevolent wisdom with a sea tortoise because I really don't want to waste any more of my precious time listening to all the things I'm doing wrong and have done wrong and should do differently.

I cite my older and wiser sister's insight to point out that when your fellow adults fall on times of unemployment you avoid that topic like the plague. And it's not because your wisdom is any less useful to the previously gainfully employed, it's because it's rude. So why, seriously, someone explain to me, why it suddenly becomes socially acceptable to Salem-Witch-Trial the class of 2013 (and 2012 and 2011 and 2014) on all their admittedly uninformed thoughts and plans and aspirations? Who decided that was OK?

I concede that these unintentionally malicious figures may have something valuable to offer, some shred of experience or wisdom that while it may not offer employment may at least offer comfort in whatever stage you are at now. But I cannot pretend that this possibility is worth being accused by friends and strangers alike as lazy or unintelligent or unskilled or whatever their diagnosis of my unemployment is.

Let's put it this way: your advice hasn't gotten me hired yet, and unless you're the real Salem witch I don't see that changing. And I'm not even looking for a career path job! And yet your narrow minded inability to listen to or value anything that comes out of my mouth stops you from understanding my plan and permits you to correct it. That's so funny, I don't remember handing you a red pen.

So save the criticism for someone who's listening. I'm off seeking advice from people whom I actually respect. Like my friends Mr. Merlot and Ms. Malbec.

With Thoughts of Avoxes Dancing Through My Head,
The Modernist