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| I've learned something about myself that should come in handy when planning my future, and it's this:
I absolutely, positively, undeniably, passionately hate everything about working in retail.
I hate dealing with customers. I hate the fact that the take me away from what I'm doing in order to ask what 25% off four dollars would be. I hate their insistence that I check this magical place, "the back" for a size they need, or something they can't find, in spite of the fact that I have told them there is nothing in the back. In the sense they're using the word, there is no back. There is a room where empty hangers are. I can get you as many of them as you want. They're free. I hope you accidentally kill yourself with one.
I hate all retail terms. I hate hearing "associate" when someone is referring to "employees." The terms "freight," "sell-through," "clearance," and "product" make my skin crawl.
I hate these hours.
I hate having to pretend I'm nice so I won't get fired.
I hate having the threat of being fired constantly hanging over my head.
And worst of all, they don't pay me enough for this.
Avoid retail jobs at all costs.
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| You Are A Martini |  You are the kind of drinker who appreciates a nice hard drink.
And for you, only quality alcohol. You don't waste your time on the cheap stuff.
Obviously, you're usually found with a martini in your hand. But sometimes you mix it up with a gin and tonic.
And you'd never, ever consider one of those flavored martinis. They're hardly a drink! |
I even double checked with a second quiz.
There you have it, folks. Straight from the internet, the world's foremost source of infinite knowledge. I am, beyond the shadow of any doubt, a gin man. | | |
| Is it possible that I've finally run out of things to say?
Perhaps. I've been focusing my literary efforts elsewhere recently.
Here's something—anyone who reads this should watch Some Like It Hot just as soon as they can get the unenlightened little hands on it.
 
If you can believe it, Marilyn somehow manages to look less like a sex symbol more like something that's just plain adorable. In a sex comedy, no less. And although he's no Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon ain't such a bad-looking girl (although Tony Curtis definitely is).
This post is lacking content. What does that say about my summer thus far?
Although I did see Everyone Says I Love You.
Yeah, it features a chorus all dressed as Groucho Marx singing "Hooray for Captain Spaulding" in French at a Groucho-themed Christmas party in Paris, as well as Woody Allen dancing with Goldie Hawn by the Seine. Also, a cab driver sings in Hindi.
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| I am thrilled to announce that for the better part of this summer, I will be working part time in a junk shop. That's right, kids, I'll get to spend my days unloading boxes filled with all sorts of eclectic goodies that Nordstrom couldn't sell and Macy's wouldn't take, including (but not limited to) framed Charlie Chaplin prints, piano-print martini glasses, imported rosemary basil olive oil, chamomile tea, Jetson-esque chrome plated paper towel holders, opera glasses, and novelty plastic cash registers for aspiring accountants in their toddler years (just like the one that knocked my front teeth out when I was around eight).
As supplemental income, I'm also trying to get another job in a department store. So, working two grunt jobs all summer for little money, using my free time to have as much inexpensive fun around the town as I can and trying to get as much writing done as possible, I will consider this summer a stepping block towards completely diving into la vie de bohème.
This summer should be pretty cool. Not necessarily fun, but I think I'll be glad I did it.
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| ...of the semester, that is.
It seems strange. In December I was dreading this semester; I can't explain how eager I was for it to be over. And now, barring one more final on Friday, it is. And I don't even know where the time went. All I'm doing now is dreading the summer.
I think since December, I've been really really really ready for August. For realz.
Next semester will rule.
I NEED A TIME MACHINE.
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