To Whom It May Concern:

To Whom It May Concern:

I won’t sugarcoat it; I had some help. I’m not saying I didn’t put any work into it. Far from it; I graduated in the top 50% of my class at Brown, and I got at least 90 minutes of cardio every week, including walks to and from class.

Mom doesn’t OWN the airline, but she’s got a lot of shares. So when she saw how hard it was for me to find a job right out of college, I think she saw my potential and really wanted to help out. I was living in her guest room, and I can’t say for certain, but I think my presence was a constant reminder to her of how precious I was to her, and as a mother, how much she owed me.

Not monetarily, of course. I would never take mom’s money. But it was extremely helpful not to have to worry about paying rent or utilities while I was job-searching, which took up at least half of my awake-time each day.

It’s been a whirlwind so far. I’ve been to Paris, Rome (or “Roma,” as the locals say!), Manila, Toronto (snore), Moscow, Glasgow, and just recently, Sicily. I’m not even sure what the name of the village in Sicily was, something with a “z” in it, or a “c.” When you travel as much as I do, it all gets jumbled together!

It’s been seven months now that I’ve been writing for the in-flight magazine, but it feels like much longer. The meals, the hotels, the museums, the per diem wine budget; it’s exhausting! And I rarely get more than two weeks off in between trips, and jet-lag isn’t just some made-up excuse to sleep in, let me tell you. This thing is for real. Sometimes, I only sleep on the plane for four hours at a time. I did get to see Silver Linings Playbook though, and I wasn’t sure if I would get to see that, but I was able to see it. It was different from the book, I’ve heard.

If you’ve flown on Pioneer Airlines in the last few months or so, you may have read my column, “I Get Around.” You probably have. I’m going to tell you right now, a lot of it comes from real-life experience. Everything I see, everyone I meet, the hidden gems I discover; it’s mostly based on real life.

That’s the one thing about my job that really makes me feel blessed: being able to help those in need by describing an experience they’ll literally never get to have. I don’t know how often the underprivileged get to fly Pioneer, but when they do, I take great solace in imagining their faces light up when they’re able to read “I Get Around.” “These magazines are complimentary?” I imagine them saying. “I’m going to look some of these words up when I get back to the library computer!” they might say. It truly makes my heart swell.

In conclusion, this is why I think I would be a great fit as Vice President of Sales at Hillcrest Insurance, Inc. At 24, I’m experienced enough to bring leadership and wisdom to the table, but young enough to have a broad knowledge of Instagram, etc. I look forward to my interview.

Sincerely,
Jenna Amherst

Ambien dreams

Wet basketti, motion screams. Do a dance, on a floor, all around. She say I'm not the ones, but her kids came stole my stuff. Ambien Queen.

"Capture in the Cellar"

This is an MS Paint thing I did. I still think it's funny.

Dawn on Lakeshore Drive

After roughly four minutes of predictable, mechanical sex, Adam said "goodnight" to his wife, turned off the emerald bedside lamp in their two-star hotel, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Adam usually didn't experience particularly vivid dreams, but this night was an exception; he dreamt he was a high-end prostitute, wandering Lakeshore Drive in the middle of the night, propositioning the homeless.

He looked out onto the water and he saw that instead of being relatively calm, the shore of Lake Michigan rolled and churned and glowed a gentle neon green. Those must be dinoflagellates, Adam thought as he threw a red high-heel into the water. This was a strange, because in real life Adam was stupid and spoke monosyllabically and only rarely wore heels.

Adam woke up from his dream, glanced at the alarm clock, and saw that it was almost four in the morning. He looked over at his slumbering wife, who had a desperate and unfulfilled look upon her face, which was a look that he had grown accustomed to over the previous few years. He got up, urinated for several minutes, made a big fussy production of wiping off the toilet seat with the hotel-provided white terry-cloth bathrobe. He rinsed his hands in the stale bathwater, put the bathrobe on, and quietly let himself out.

...

After a few hours of walking around various neighborhoods in the black predawn, the sun began to rise over Chicago, making the brick facades and storefronts seem new and whole in the quiet, chilly dawn. Adam stopped to pick some dandelions when he noticed that he was in front of a house he recognized. It took a him a few minutes, but eventually, he remembered it as the boyhood home of a former lover.

"Dane Marie McElquine," he said as the memories came rushing back to him; the late-morning picnics by the lake, the rainy afternoons spent indoors, completing puzzles of Buckingham Palace, the soft summer sweat pouring off of their brows as they entered each other, violently convulsing in pleasure.

As he stood there, a small crowd of neighborhood children gathered around them. One of them, a small Puerto Rican girl who looked to be about eight years old, said "Hey Mister; are you going to stand here all day rubbing your legs or what?" Adam turned to her as he placed the dandelions behind his left ear.

"Maybe I will, Mexican. Maybe I will."

Professional Medical Advice*

...from Dr.** Cory Kibler, Professional Medician***.

Q: I suffer from hemorrhoids. Last night I put a suppository in my anus, and afterwards realized that the suppository was expired. I don't think it dissolved; I think it's still in there. Should I be worried? - from Terrified

A: That's awesome! Fuck yeah, you should definitely be worried. But I can imagine a situation in which I'd want to put some stuff up there too, you know? Just to see? Find me some stuff****, and we'll talk.








*More like "suggestions" and they are definitely not professional.
**I am not a Doctor.
***This is not a real word.
****Lots of stuff. No size is too big or too small.

Rejected by McSweeney's: I guess I can't blame them.

My date with a very famous, beautiful, and talented comedienne who once acted and was the head writer for a very well-known series that generally runs on Saturdays, and who now writes and stars in a sitcom based on the idiosyncrasies and quirks of her former job (her identity shall remain anonymous).

I'll be the first to concede; I never thought I would pull this one out of my hat. The first time I met her was at a mutual friend's Halloween party in two-thousand-and-six. I'd spied her from across the room early in the evening, but was too timid to approach her, naturally. She was dressed up as one of the characters from the film Calendar Girls (I could not tell you which character she meant to portray; as I recall, the women in the film were all elderly and mostly nude. Our girl wore a frock and looked her age, about thirty-five). I myself had scrambled last-minute to construct my costume, and as such, I was an un-fully realized version of Cap'n Crunch.

After a few vodka tonics, I was able to muster up the courage to speak to her. My timing was immaculate, as she was alone in front of the cheese spread. "How do you do? I've seen your likeness multiple times in various forms of media. You're quite attractive. May I call you sometime?" Initially, she didn't hear me or at least pretended not to hear me. But I kept looking at her, engaging her, attempting to elicit a reply. She began to chew her camembert more slowly, more thoughtfully. Finally, she turned to me, and, with a look of genuine concern, asked me if I had been speaking to her, or someone else. I assured her that I had meant to address her specifically, and repeated myself. I hadn't the heart to mention the bleu cheese crumble that rested upon her bosom.

Suspiciously, she agreed to exchange information. I can only assume that she herself had enjoyed multiple cocktails, otherwise, she most likely would have spurned my advances (I wore a cluster of Crunchberries upon my sash). Because of the nature of my costume, I had an antique fountain pen at my disposal, and so I wrote down both of our numbers on a cocktail napkin, tore the napkin in half, gave her the half with my number on it, and put the other half in my wallet. The wallet was not antique; it was from Sears. After the exchange, we talked for two minutes at most and ultimately went our separate ways, she to the ladies' room, and I to the keg of malt liquor (our host had a unique sense of humor).

I kept her number crumpled in my wallet for several days before I could convince myself that meeting her for an Americano wouldn't be a total disaster. After all, she was a wildly successful woman with a lot to offer. Meanwhile, I was (and still am) a chronically tardy, out-of-shape, insufferable drug user whose entire wardrobe is worth less than two-hundred dollars. I also had (and still have) severe eczema. I have been described as "flaky" on multiple occasions.

So you can imagine my surprise when, out of the blue on a Friday afternoon, I received a telephone call from her. I was in a delicatessen on the upper-west side, trying to decide whether or not to pay for the baguette I had just eaten, when she rang. She got right to the point. I was to meet her the next morning at eleven-fifteen for brunch at a French Café in the Village. She specified that we eat outside on the patio underneath the olive-green awning, as the forecast called for light rain. I agreed, and, keeping my composure, thanked her for the telephone call and ended the conversation before I had a chance to say anything off-color (I have a tendency to unwittingly degrade the homeless). I then decided it would be best to return to my Uncle Jerold's loft in the meatpacking district, so that I could physically and mentally prepare for our impending mid-morning meal.

Instead, however, I spent all that night envisioning how our brunch would play out. She would laugh her delicious laugh, tossing her chestnut-brown curls over her left shoulder, and when her glasses became totally disheveled from all the violent, head-jerking laughter, she would push them back up onto the bridge of her nose while trying (in vain) to catch her breath. It would be a delightful date.

And, as many of my close relations might expect, I imagined the date so many times that I didn't fall asleep until four in the morning, which caused me to sleep well past our prearranged meeting time. When I called her at one-thirty to apologize and reschedule, she told me not to bother. This was just as well, since I was still technically not allowed to leave my Uncle Jerold's apartment at the firm request of the Federal Government.

Tornados, Hail, and Cell-Phones.

The other day, there were all sorts of tornado warnings in Nebraska. I had to go to the basement in my work. I’m still relatively new, and everyone in my department had gone home for the day, so I didn’t really know anyone. There were three groups of people talking, and then there was me, by myself. I stood around, trying to decide whether sitting down would make me look like even more of a nerd. Finally, I sat down against the wall and pretended to play games on my phone, so that I wouldn’t look stupid. I pretended to play games on my phone, so that I wouldn’t look stupid.

This is just a symptom of a larger problem, which is that I pretend to engage in urgent phone-related business when things get even slightly awkward for me. If I’m supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a restaurant, and I arrive before my friend does, I will constantly check the clock on my phone to appear busy, getting minute-updates in real time. “Oh, it’s 12:37. Wait, now it’s 12:38… 39 now. It’s 12:39 now. Oops, I spoke too soon…” I’ll also send text messages just for the sake of looking busy: “hey matt what did u have 4 dinner tues? lol” I don’t care what Matt ate for dinner on Tuesday, and I didn’t laugh out loud. I just pray that Matt isn’t busy, so that Matt can help me lie to those around me.

What would happen if I left my phone in my pocket? Is there someone who would point and say, “Look at that asshole! He’s not doing anything; he’s just sitting at a bus stop, waiting for his bus. Just sitting there!” No, I bet not. But that doesn’t stop me. I will even pull out my phone when I see someone walking down the hall towards me, so I don’t have to figure out what to do with my eyes. “This is a nice hallway. Since I have twenty seconds of free time, I’d better check and see if my Mom called. Nope! Not today.”

Somewhat ironically, it bugs the shit out of me when people talk on their phones in public places. Apparently, it’s okay if you’re miming Tetris, but if you have a quiet conversation with a friend, you’re a dick.

Going back to tornados and other various types of inclement weather: the day of the tornado warning, my friend Zach told me that in some places near Lincoln, there were grapefruit-sized pieces of hail falling from the sky, roughly 4 ¼” in diameter. While it would suck to be knocked in the head with one of these pieces of monster-hail, there’s an upside; to remedy the pain, simply trap the piece of hail to your head at the moment of impact in order to ice the injury.

“Ouch! Fuck me!

…

Ah, that’s better.”

It’s kind of like getting a paper cut on a band-aid wrapper, or slipping in a puddle Neosporin.

Computers and TVs

A part of me thinks that maybe we're not supposed to spend so much time on the computer and/or watching television. And by that I mean, "if we didn't have computers or TVs or cell phones, we'd be happier." And maybe that's true. Maybe our lives would be richer.

But another, more active part of me thinks, "If TV is so bad for you, why is SNL so awesome? Why are rap videos so fun to watch? Why is Campus Ladies such a great show? What would I do without It's Always Sunny...?" And then, I'm all like, "It's so fucking easy to keep in touch with people through e-mail. I talk to my relatives seven times as much since the internet started. I can hear new bands for free; I can watch youtube videos of babes drinking whole milk. I can send music all around the globe." And while I'm not a cell-phone junkie (I still have a flip-phone that looks fairly old), I am super glad I have it. When I'm running late. When there's an emergency. When I need to drunk-dial someone at a bar. These are all situations in which having a cell-phone is absolutely imperative.

But I think we use these fucking dude-things too much for sure. I stare at a computer screen all day for work. Then, I come home and I look at a TV until I go to bed. There's something wrong with that. In Nebraska during this time of year, it's too cold out to go hiking, so we're kind of fucked on that front. Maybe technology is one of those things that's good to have during Winter when you can't go outside. But honestly, I'd rather read and look at a fire and *maybe* get a beej but come on guys, that's not really the point (or is it?).

Books are cool, but they kind of do the same thing that computers and TVs do: they remove you from real reality. Maybe it's okay if you read a book in the wilderness, or if you check out porn while in a canoe. I bet it would make the water seem choppier than it actually was.

"Man, the lake sure is bumpy today!"

"Yeah, ha ha! Well actually man, I'm jacking off back here."

And another thing: when will they come up with live pornography? Can you pay money to go watch people have sex? You can't make a business out of it (like how Chuck. E. Cheese is a business, and like how Bob's Big Boy WAS a business). But it seems like something you could do.

I guess the reason for this entry stems from the fact that I always seem to be happier when I'm outdoors. When I am camping, or when I'm on a walk, or especially when I'm in the Rocky Mountains: that's when I feel the most grounded and calm. TVs and computers make me feel antsy because I'm just fucking sitting there, and they also make me more out of shape because I'm not moving around, AND, they make me less imaginative because everyone thinks of things for me. TV shows, movies and youtube videos are all the creativity I ever strive for. I don't have to ever really use my imagination to think of anything because it's so easy to Google it.

Sexual fantasies used to come from the mind. Now they come from images/movies from TV/the internet.

You know what technology CAN'T do for you? It can't get you drunk, and it can't soak your dork. But if/when it is able to, look out; we're all boned.