the bad girls of the 903?
i almost believed the party was over when i crossed the stage, gripping my rolled up diploma in a maroon tube and glaring at dean johnson. guess i was wrong.
adults? they don't go to bed at 7 a.m. they don't wake up to the failed attempts at a beer bottle pyramid the next morning. they don't sprawl out on their floor amid piles of clean and dirty clothes, praying that they won't see the crack of dawn. because that would validate immaturity.
guess i'm not an adult yet.
i'm having too much fun, and i blame it on journalism. if it wasn't for the odd hours and the stress, i'd be up at 8 a.m., brownbagging a wheat bread sandwich to work, and dragging ass home at 5 p.m. to turn on CSI and heat up leftovers.
but noooooo.... i'm a reporter. i roll into work, um, let's say, two hours late. no one either cares or notices. i chug a slimfast and try to apply mascara on my way to work. i eat tuna fish at my desk and try to blow the crumbs away from my keyboard. i stay hours longer than my schedule says i should. i get off of the elevator and step out into the dark alley with megan, starving. on autopilot i turn right toward jakes - the place. i order hummus and pita bread, and sometimes a glass of wine.
we stop at the gas station on my way home from work. we don't have to go in until 2 p.m. the next day - and we'll still show up late - so we decide to stay up. we buy cheap flavored cigars, which we smoke in my house, with the window cracked because it's fun. because it's relaxing. we pretend we're old man reporters, but we burn a whole in a cheap plastic bowl we use as an ashtray.
we go to work the next day and decide the game plan for that night.
i can't continue the bad girl routine forever. my budget won't allow it and eventually me, megan, liz - we'll turn into old bad ladies. and that's just gross.
i need to grow up. maybe tomorrow.
adults? they don't go to bed at 7 a.m. they don't wake up to the failed attempts at a beer bottle pyramid the next morning. they don't sprawl out on their floor amid piles of clean and dirty clothes, praying that they won't see the crack of dawn. because that would validate immaturity.
guess i'm not an adult yet.
i'm having too much fun, and i blame it on journalism. if it wasn't for the odd hours and the stress, i'd be up at 8 a.m., brownbagging a wheat bread sandwich to work, and dragging ass home at 5 p.m. to turn on CSI and heat up leftovers.
but noooooo.... i'm a reporter. i roll into work, um, let's say, two hours late. no one either cares or notices. i chug a slimfast and try to apply mascara on my way to work. i eat tuna fish at my desk and try to blow the crumbs away from my keyboard. i stay hours longer than my schedule says i should. i get off of the elevator and step out into the dark alley with megan, starving. on autopilot i turn right toward jakes - the place. i order hummus and pita bread, and sometimes a glass of wine.
we stop at the gas station on my way home from work. we don't have to go in until 2 p.m. the next day - and we'll still show up late - so we decide to stay up. we buy cheap flavored cigars, which we smoke in my house, with the window cracked because it's fun. because it's relaxing. we pretend we're old man reporters, but we burn a whole in a cheap plastic bowl we use as an ashtray.
we go to work the next day and decide the game plan for that night.
i can't continue the bad girl routine forever. my budget won't allow it and eventually me, megan, liz - we'll turn into old bad ladies. and that's just gross.
i need to grow up. maybe tomorrow.