(no subject)
For as much as I’m blessed to see and do in my career, it makes me laugh that people think real PR is a constant, sexy nocturnal lifestyle. Some nights are colorful, slightly blurry and with enough bass to feel it in the root of your spine - and then there are days like today. Today’s high included finding an ice sculptor that didn’t hang up on me when I tried to order a 3X4 foot frozen T-bone for an upcoming mall tour. The low is tied between getting out of work after 8 PM and NOT getting the expense check I so desperately need, the one that is twice my mortgage payment and owed to me since June.
The term “bad day” is fucking relative, isn’t it? I was convinced my day sucked, until I found out that last night there was yet another visit from the serial rapist plaguing my neighborhood. Talk about a rough day. On the loose for about three months, this guy has singlehandedly confirmed my faith in Chicago PD and reminded me that as bad as things can seem, we should only be so lucky to have our “bad” days truly be our worst.
So I sit here humbled. Humbled and starving, which I blame on some random that called just as I was beginning to sauté grated garlic and red pepper and made me figure out where we met three months ago. Isn’t there a statute of limitations for calls like that?
Three things I’m over: Ice sculptures shaped like grotesque pieces of meat, forced sexual intercourse in the alley behind my condo, and the parade of losers that really aren’t worth my time.
Anyway, have you ever smelt burnt garlic and red pepper? Come to my apartment twenty years from now and it will be too soon. It was Rachael Ray’s recipe - she’s on my shit list too for not mentioning all of her 30 Minute Meals are 30 times more flammable than anything else I’ve ever cooked. I turned my back for mere seconds and half of the kitchen wall was lost.
Unfortunately this isn’t about scorched food or talk show hosts. There’s only one true source of the frustration that has stemmed and clung onto anything in my path…I’ve been called some harsh things by some mean people, but there will never be anyone harder on me than myself.
When do we wake up? When do we grow up? For me, I think the answer to both lies in last weekend. In July I was thrilled to be home for a few months because I longed for monotony - seeing familiar faces and spending time with the people closest to my heart. What I didn’t realize was that without acknowledging my priorities and harboring a little self-control, I might as well have been on the other side of the planet.
The orange-tinged sunsets are on their way out and I’m leaving with them, too - in three weeks I’ll be back on tour and the time that I intended to use to better myself will have slipped away. The volunteer program at my office isn’t completed yet. I can count the amount of times I worked at the soup kitchen on less than two hands. Bank statements, photographs and memories from this weekend laid before me, I’m incredulous that I’m the only person I left hurt in my wake…but I suppose the only choice is to be grateful for the relative ‘bad’ days in my future that are practically guaranteed to be much less worse.
The term “bad day” is fucking relative, isn’t it? I was convinced my day sucked, until I found out that last night there was yet another visit from the serial rapist plaguing my neighborhood. Talk about a rough day. On the loose for about three months, this guy has singlehandedly confirmed my faith in Chicago PD and reminded me that as bad as things can seem, we should only be so lucky to have our “bad” days truly be our worst.
So I sit here humbled. Humbled and starving, which I blame on some random that called just as I was beginning to sauté grated garlic and red pepper and made me figure out where we met three months ago. Isn’t there a statute of limitations for calls like that?
Three things I’m over: Ice sculptures shaped like grotesque pieces of meat, forced sexual intercourse in the alley behind my condo, and the parade of losers that really aren’t worth my time.
Anyway, have you ever smelt burnt garlic and red pepper? Come to my apartment twenty years from now and it will be too soon. It was Rachael Ray’s recipe - she’s on my shit list too for not mentioning all of her 30 Minute Meals are 30 times more flammable than anything else I’ve ever cooked. I turned my back for mere seconds and half of the kitchen wall was lost.
Unfortunately this isn’t about scorched food or talk show hosts. There’s only one true source of the frustration that has stemmed and clung onto anything in my path…I’ve been called some harsh things by some mean people, but there will never be anyone harder on me than myself.
When do we wake up? When do we grow up? For me, I think the answer to both lies in last weekend. In July I was thrilled to be home for a few months because I longed for monotony - seeing familiar faces and spending time with the people closest to my heart. What I didn’t realize was that without acknowledging my priorities and harboring a little self-control, I might as well have been on the other side of the planet.
The orange-tinged sunsets are on their way out and I’m leaving with them, too - in three weeks I’ll be back on tour and the time that I intended to use to better myself will have slipped away. The volunteer program at my office isn’t completed yet. I can count the amount of times I worked at the soup kitchen on less than two hands. Bank statements, photographs and memories from this weekend laid before me, I’m incredulous that I’m the only person I left hurt in my wake…but I suppose the only choice is to be grateful for the relative ‘bad’ days in my future that are practically guaranteed to be much less worse.