Eat Your Heart Out, Kafka

Fivehead: An extremely large forehead.
That girl has a fivehead so big you could show movies on it.

Sunday greetings. Hope your weekend was as lovely as mine. Yesterday was filled with food, drank and summer dresses at Micaela's mom's spontaneous backyard wedding. I would describe it as a beautiful shitshow. The end of my night was spent taking mind-blowingly (not a real word) obscure photos in an alley with Katie.

Nobody gets us.

My mother has been in Oregon for the past five days and won't be back from Seattle until Thursday—translation: the house is a hot mess. And as the oldest child and only daughter, one might assume I would then step up as "lady of the household" during her absence. Sike, I have transformed into one of the boys. We track dirt into the house, leave the dishes in the sink and lack general cleanliness. It's like living with 17- and 62-year-old frat brothers. The other night, the three of us bickered over dinner about who didn't replace the toilet paper. "Well, you were in there longer than 5 minutes!" one of us yelled at the other. I'm not sure if it's kind of sweet that we notice each other's bathroom habits or just wrong.

You know, I've been doing some thinking about my place in the "career world." I know I'm not in a position to be too picky about my employment right now, but I hope I never work somewhere feeling that I'm selling my soul. I told my dad that and his response was, "You won't be in a position of power or influence for years. And what does that even mean? What if you work for a newspaper that is owned by a media conglomerate that also manufactures WMDs, or your office is in the middle of nowhere and the only thing to eat around there is McDonald's who cuts down Brazilian rain forests for grazing space?"

I know he's right—I'm going to be a professional nobody for a while, and everything is somehow connected in ways we often don't recognize. I could be indirectly doing something to cause harm elsewhere and never know about it, nor does everyone have the option of an occupation to do good. Try talking about this kind of stuff to your immigrant mother or father from a blue-collar background—I feel like a privileged ass. I just hope I can find a job that proves to have a direct positive effect on something I care about. Damn, what do people having existential, quarter-life crises do? Buy bikes?

I've been meaning to post this video for a while just because I love it so much though it's not really related to anything. Or perhaps it's related to everything.



Until next time, viva el frat house.


- J.