Soooooo I wrote an article about sex. And not having it.
It was super awkward! You should read it!
Happy anniversary to Mr. and Mrs. Rekasi!
Hard to believe it’s been a year since I was in Miami Beach, dinking around on an SD camera I borrowed from a guy I used to work with in high school and hoping I could get all the necessary shots by myself. Hannah = not a videographer.
Here’s the two-hour-quick-edit trailer version.
Another post from another place.
This might become more of an aggregator (my new vocabulary word) than an actual blog.
But that’s okay.
A breath of fresh words about the sensation I get from that first autumn gust of wind.
For the record, I do still write sometimes.
Here’s my latest post—part of an ongoing collaboration with the good people at Culturemakers.
I think we’re going to be very happy together.
This time, I tackle the part of culture that stares me in the face every day. The part that gets me a paycheck. The part that sickens my stomach.
So here it is.
I’m a week away from my 23rd birthday. My “golden birthday,” no less. So really this is my last chance to over-celebrate a birthday before I start calling them “the big something-0.”
Since the average good-citizen person graduates college at 22, I haven’t felt much pressure to have my life together up to this point. Sure, I felt the You Are Smart and the You Are Talented and the You Are Racking Up Lots of Student Debt, but those were more incentives to overachieve. I had high school English teacher’s pet IN THE BAG, so why should the rest of my life be any different?
I know when you reach a certain point in life they can say about you that “the clock is ticking.” What is this clock? When does it start ticking? Does Father Time take bribes?
I think for me personally the clock is going to start ticking in six-and-a-half days when I no longer have matching double-digits. Twenty-three just SOUNDS older. Twenty-two is “aww, you have so much potential!” and twenty-three is “so…what are you doing?”
In a week I’ll suddenly have to think about my eggs drying up and my hair falling out and whether I’ll have a real “career” and whether anyone will EVER REALLY LOVE ME. For now it’s okay for me to go to Coachella and have Netflix marathons and be eating microwave garlic shrimp spring rolls at 1am. But then I need to get serious.
After this week, I won’t be getting any younger.
I’ve spent so much time trying to figure out what I should focus on in life to be most successful. Trying to find the “niche” that I can fill and devote all my time, energy and self-promotion to–since I’m not a classically trained musician or anything straightforward like that. Most of the reason I haven’t written in this blog more is because I’m embarrassed that it doesn’t have a single agenda, like cooking or something. It’s like I don’t have a goal. How very cute and 22-ish of me.
Really though, the world isn’t going to care much what I “do with my life.” Not any more than they remember my Facebook statuses for more than two minutes. Which is sad to realize for a few seconds, and then completely freeing and awesome.
So, with this year, I think I’m going to focus on having good community with people. Which means things like making rent and making lunch and making time. Things that I will have to keep working at for years and years. Which is handy, because years and years are exactly what I’ve (probably) got. But really, if I can do what I need to do to foster good relationships all around, how could I possibly not be a successful person?
Happy Birthday to little old me.
I’ve seen The Hunger Games twice now.
I came into it plot-ignorant, only knowing that everyone was calling it “the next Twilight” and if it was anything like that sick, overblown vampire-fest (I said it–come at me, tweens!) I’d have to bow out.
I was entranced by the end of it. The whole concept was so compelling. It was Lord of the Flies…but it wasn’t. They were killing kids on the screen in front of me–but there was hope. There had to be. There had to be a winner. And it had to be a volunteer.
What got me the most was the line “They just want a good show.”
As I come up on my third month working full-time in reality TV, I wonder.
Do we have our own versions of Hunger Games?
We can justify The Bachelor because everyone signs release forms and comes in willingly. And no one dies…at least physically.
We’re so much more civilized than empires that made slaves gladiators and groomed them to die for entertainment. Now we just get people to make out in hot tubs or eat scorpions or keep up with the Kardashians. Go us.
Some teen girls have even apparently gotten pregnant in hopes of being cast on “Teen Mom 2.”
(Which, by the way, hasn’t launched many careers in showbiz. So stop conceiving. Please.)
Where’s the line? Are these shows produced just so we can be reminded “But hey, at least I’m not a pregnant 15-year-old…or obese…or a Guido”? Maybe there’s some redeeming quality to watching Hulk Hogan’s daughter get wasted.
It’s good drama if someone cries, right?
Two thousand years ago, Pontius Pilate knew that the crowd just wanted a good show. So he washed his hands and handed Jesus off to the ravenous mob. Jesus was beaten, flogged and mocked. Publicly. Because that’s what it takes to satisfy us. We have to watch it happen.
But he didn’t react. He gave them nothing to work with. Not a show, just a sacrifice.
He volunteered. He died. And he won.
Last week I was home for Thanksgiving. And what do people do who go home for Thanksgiving?
They do MAD CRAZY PHOTO SHOOTS because they’re not in LA and don’t have to get permits for every blade of grass they take a picture of. Obviously.
I’m so in love with them that I’ve used them for my new header and background, but you can go to Amy’s blog to see the full set.
As a rule, I think cover letters are tedious and stupid. Mostly because I can’t stand writing something specifically for a company with 95% confidence that they’ll barely glance at it unless they like my resume. Even though the point of the cover letter was to make the resume look better.
It’s also because I have problems going halfway on these things. Five generic sentences? Not happening.
Here’s an example of what happens when I write a cover letter.
(Job in question = junior copywriter for fashion website.)
Why would I want to work for you?
It’s simple. As a twenty-something living the dream in Los Angeles, like so many other people, I worry about whether or not I’m making a statement. Additionally, I worry whether the statement is something like “eww, gross.” I know I’m not alone in this.
Fashion sites offer a “stop, look and listen” service to the public. They tell the wanderers on the Internet to STOP thinking they can wear sweatpants everywhere, LOOK at what else they could be wearing, and–here’s where I come in–LISTEN to why not being frumpy is a worthwhile investment.
As someone who has run the gamut of skinny/fat, popular/unpopular, fashionable/not fashionable, I get it. Sure, confidence isn’t something external–it’s a decision you make. But so are the clothes you wear. So why not make good decisions all around?
If given the opportunity, I look forward to helping your company help all of the other dreamer-girls like me make good choices.