There are about a million eighteen year olds in my apartment, blasting Justin Bieber and ILLEGALLY DRUNK off shitty wine and Bud Light. I feel like I can bitch because I am a) 21 b) Convinced Justin Bieber is a lesbian in disguise and c) I can feel them judging me in my work out clothes while I make matzah brie. I’m sorry, but after a long day I am allowed to binge on carbs. It’s the only thing I have left.
I already threatened the young ones about touching my Bud Light, and if one can is missing I’m going straight for their kneecaps. They are all dancers or musicians or some generic carbon copy of youth that believes “they’re going to make it.” If those crucial three extra years of binge drinking and self-realization have taught me anything…someone’s going to put baby in the corner. And she’s going to stay there, until discovering an alternative route to dancing on stage. Usually involving the removal of clothing.
There was one guy in the apartment that looked exactly like the black man from Showgirls, the one that tried to get with our beautiful stripper protagonist until he knocked up her less hot friend. Womp womp. I rather enjoy that movie, even though I was slightly disturbed that Charlotte’s husband from Sex and The City was managing such a torrid business venture. However, I’m sure such events occurred before he changed his name to Trey, became a doctor, and moved to the Upper East Side. I need to stop living vicariously through television.
Anyways, I’ve discovered that I live about 15 minutes from Lincoln center, I’m a twenty-five minute walk from Penn station and Herald Square, and I’m pretty fucking far from Union Square. I don’t trust my navigation skills yet, and have this unreasonable fear of accidentally ending up in Brooklyn, so I tend to walk everywhere. The whole not wanting to pay for the subway is also an extremely large factor. This morning I had to venture to Brooklyn to show my passport to the census bureau so they could stop fucking calling me. What am I, a terrorist? I am far too preoccupied moderating my caffeine and calorie intake to care about threatening our national security. Brooklyn was not the pit of despair I had previously envisioned, just filled with less fashionable people than Manhattan. I do not count myself as one of them, as I am but a novice in the delicate and underappreciated craft of bulimia.
I am currently waiting for a call from the census department so I can go door to door, peppering the fair people of Midtown with trite and obnoxious questions. However, it will be paying more than anything I’ll make in retail, so I’ll be sure to do it with a smile. I had to take a Census test in order to be qualified, which consisted of being trapped in a room full of illiterate people for two and a half hours. I had to book it out of there for a modeling callback, so I was unable to see who failed a questionnaire that made the SAT look like a thesis on bio-nuclear physics. Needless to say the modeling callback didn’t go well, considering they weren’t pleased my last headshots were from when I was a 00 and sixteen. I was also up against a Ukranian girl, who didn’t seem to quite understand that there is food in America, or that this was a callback for the “average sized.” Yet in the end, the male model and I exchanged numbers so I consider myself a winner all the same.
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