Talking Shit

The dude I’m dating got into Duke Law yesterday. Today he got a full ride to Temple.

Don’t get me wrong, I am super stoked for him, but this whole ‘wow you’re like the cat’s meow’ is making me feel inadequate, like perhaps he (gasp) ‘settled.’ But I am far from an underachiever! My GPA is near perfect, I’m the officer of three student organizations, I work 15 hours a week for an economic development firm, I volunteer and recycle, and I’m a nice person who regularly bakes goodies for her small and accommodating circle of friends.

So what could I do to reaffirm my self-worth? What could I do to prove to myself that I am just as much a catch?? Naturally, test my willpower. duh.

Starting Monday, and for the following ten days I will drink 6-12 glasses daily of a lemon-maple syrup-cayenne pepper concoction while I commit to going to the gym every other day.

Kat von D tried this cleanse on her show so I think it’s okay. She passed out, but whatever. I think I’m more hardcore than some chick that has a gold tooth and not a square inch of untatted hide. Totally, man.

If I don’t continue to at least semi-regularly update, there’s a good chance I passed out in the shower and drown. Wish me luck.

Jaibee, OUT.



In the last five minutes of my "Strategy and Competitive Advantage" class, my professor casually assigned the following question for tomorrow's class:

What is your life vision?

Really?? After several hundred false attempts, this is what I have. This is my life's vision:

To have a vision implies having a plan, a path. And while I understand that in order to accomplish D, you must sometimes first complete A, B and C, this nonetheless means that eventually you’ll hit Z. And then what?

We live our lives by our own philosophies, benchmarking against own expectations, deciding when the box is fit to be checked. And what’s the big deal about D anyway? Is D the goal? Is Z? Or is it simply to learn the alphabet? At what point are you satisfied enough to fly your ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner?

It would be nice to leave accredited from this institution of higher learning, would be nice to go on to get shinier degrees with more elaborate frames, would be nice to make six, seven, eight figures, but my vision is not to be student, nor planet-saver, nor wife to bear beautiful children. My vision is rather simple: to be 20/20. My vision is to live stories worth re-telling.

How do you justify 13,000 feet of falling, holding the hands of someone you hardly know; swimming in the Atlantic, in January, twice; or sleeping on the plastic-lined couches of strangers. What rationale do you use to explain biking across the state with nothing but a twenty, a jar of peanut butter and a bouquet of flowers; eating a box of clementines waiting for the sun to rise, with sand in hair. They were stories to share and things I saw when I remembered to not blink too much.

If these pressing economic times persist, I’ll still have a pocketful of gems for the willing ear, which may be more than your eight-figure job and your hand-carved frames. Really, it’s all about ROI.

We are so often told to look to the future, to the horizon, to beyond. We are recommended to plan, often meticulously, the highways which will assumingly eventually lead us to a goal, or to the end of a continent. In such a case, I can only recommend a swim.


We Is Full Grown

A new study by UK’s leading sociologists have concluded that if you want to find happiness in later life, it is best to avoid puppy love altogether.

I don’t usually like to include characters from my own personal love life as examples (unless you’re this guy… or this guy), mostly because I promised them I wouldn’t, and it’s tacky. But I will say that those Brits are onto something. I may or may not have been with someone in the maybe not so distant past, in which there may have been a hypothetical relationship largely based on butterflies, of the intestinal sort.

In the end, it was him, not me, and maybe we loved, but weren’t in love. (or something like that)

I can’t say that my current relationship is in any way shadowed by the shallow affections and junior highness of that former flame, but I’ve learned that puppy love is a lot of work, and a lot of compromise, and prime brain real estate, and a lot of undeserved fawning.

Puppy love is fucking stressful, and let’s face it, nothing good ever comes of it. I’m ready for relationships based on, I dunno, maturity, respect, realistic expectations, communication and all those other things Cosmo says. Also, I’m ready to trade in hallway notes for other fun presents. I’m the farthest thing from a needy girlfriend, but sometimes girls like presents. And like L’Oreal, I’m worth it.

To quote one of my dearest friends: Imma get mine, in ’09. amen.


RANT: Reading Isn't Hard

For the last four years, I've worked diligently on acquiring my bachelor's degree in Marketing. I even found time to get a minor in Corporate Communications. When I'm not in classes, I'm putting theory to use, working at a reputable economic development firm. I pay attention in class; I show up on time; I take this college deal seriously.

Praise be to Jesus, this is my last term of a full workload. After signing up for three marketing classes and "Competive Advantage and Strategic Management," I thought I'd use one of my electives on something that would be fun, relatively easy, interesting... English "The Beat Fifties."

Sounds groovy, right? I have the fondest memories sitting in Ms. Rosalind Jones' AP English class in the spring, with the windows open, the urge for munchies just subsiding- discussing metaphor in Siddharta. Oh, it was beautiful! Nine beautiful nerds sitting in a circle trying to get in Hesse's head, and seven out of nine of those beautiful nerds received the highest score on the AP exam. Those other two degenerates got 4/5.


Fast forward to this morning's class, a veritable collection of barely-there potheads, embittered chicks in combat boots, and a guy who shows up half an hour late to a 50-minute class and probably hasn’t bathed in recent history. Whatever, dude, they're artists. Now the professor goes on her anti-organized religious rant, and something about "making dirty sex to the dark woman."

Chick in the front row, can you tell us the setting of this novel?
"It's just... it's just fuckin hell. Everyone is so pretty and clean with their polo shirts and white picket fences. It's fuckin miserable. Everyone is just pretending they're happy, but deep down, they fuckin hate themselves and everything they're pretending to be. So fake."

Yeah, thanks Chick-in-the-Front-Row. 'Westport, CT' would have been an acceptable answer too.

And why are you so damn bitter, Chick-in-the-Front-Row!? Your major simply requires you to lie in bed and read. Also, it’s not like the books have gotten progressively more difficult as you’ve gone through college. If you are literate, I think you’re going to be okay. And paying 40k a year to read poems at a well-respected engineering school? Well, maybe you should be the one taking a couple business courses…

Here, I wrote you a haiku:
Why are you so damn loathsome?
Reading isn’t hard.

Author’s Note: I don’t hate on all English majors. Just the self-righteous, bitter ones who aren’t honest with themselves.