On the apocalypse

So I was going to post about how I came across an advertisement today encouraging me to:

"Soak the girl to get a free ringtone!" complete with an animated female character hopping up into the splits from behind a fence; a disembodied hand looming ominously in the foreground, holding a water balloon.

And I was going to talk about how this made me sad and scared at the same time. Because someone is getting PAID to create these ads. And there's, like, wars and stuff.

But no, no. Because then I started thinking about more important things. Like how I need to find a job soon. And that makes me want to consume about 600 alcoholic beverages.

Ah, graduation. Being pushed out of the nest. Becoming a real adult, rather than my faux-adult shell that pretends I have the adult thing down but actually FREAKS OUT when I get near real-adult clothes. Like pantyhose? That shit is scary.

When I was seeing clients last year I had, like, 3 outfits that I became okay with. Grey wide-leg trousers, black sweater, that stuff. AND STILL, I WOULD GET OUT OF THAT SHIT SO FAST WHEN I GOT HOME IT WAS LIKE IT WAS ON FIRE. I'm all for wearing nice clothing, but if I can't pair it with sneakers it feels seriously awkward.

Now here's the best part. I am actually convinced, through the power of advertising, that I will wear Adult Clothing stuff if I buy it. Which is why I have 623 pairs of high heels. And fancy bootie-things. And dresses. AND EVERY DAY I LEAVE THE HOUSE IN A SWEATER, JEANS AND SNEAKERS.

Okay, I'm totally projecting all my fears onto clothing options (which I just typed as 'titally'. Well hello, Freud!) rather than the real fear, which is NO JOB. But what happens if I find JOB but JOB wants me to dress like ACTUAL PROFESSIONAL?

One more thing before I go back to chewing all my fingernails off. At my last professional job? In PR? I HAD TO HAVE A SIT DOWN WITH THE VP BECAUSE I WOULD NOT STOP WEARING FLIP-FLOPS. So I would wear the flip-flops from Oakland, on the ferry, to San Francisco, then from Fisherman's Wharf to North Beach, and all the way up to the elevator door, put on my high-heels, parade the 25-feet to my desk, sit down, and put on fuzzy slippers. Then I would wait for the VP to leave for lunch before going to the bathroom.