How to be Unemployed

Going from having a steady paycheck to not having a steady paycheck is, generally, a pretty big blow to one’s self worth. Living comfortably in New York City is no easy feat as it is--this coming from the girl who left a small bedroom with two feet of space around her bed for a smaller bedroom with one foot of space and a window facing a brick wall--and living at all when you don’t have an income is just plain shitty.

I have been in this position exactly twice in my life: first, when I moved to the city and thought I could live off of the $4,000 I saved for as long as it would take me to find my dream job. Moving costs and apartment furnishing and realizing that the price of toothpaste is three times higher here than literally anywhere else led to that $4k lasting me about a month and half.

The second time was this past summer, basically right up until a couple weeks ago.

While I volunteered for being unemployed four years ago when I quit my job and moved to NYC to “live my dream” like some character out of a fucking broadway musical, I hadn’t planned for it this time around. Getting laid off wasn’t a shocker, necessarily, but I wasn’t, shall we say, “psyched.”

I’m happy to report that I’m a hot commodity and recently accepted an offer with a company that I could not be more excited about, but getting to this point was an interesting journey. I definitely don’t wish for anyone to lose their job, but should you find yourself in that position, I have 5 tips on how to be unemployed.

1. Add an F

You’ll be adding a lot of “F”’s to your lexicon (e.g. “Fuck paying rent,” “Fuck that girl and her trip to Portofino,” “Fuck health insurance”). The most important one, however, is Funemployment.

The stressful factors associated with not having a job notwithstanding, I’ve gotta give my old boss a high five for laying me off during the summer. Everything awesome happens in the summertime: Beach trips, weddings, bachelorette parties, tanning in Tompkins Square Park with homeless people, rooftop bar happy hours--it’s ideal. The gym is empty at noon because everyone else is at work and I can book cheaper flights for off-peak days because I have nowhere to be on Monday morning. Make Funemployment your bitch.

2. Appease the people

When people find out you don’t have a job, they expect two things:

1. You should be working feverishly to find one at all times of day or else you’re just a lazy asshole without professional drive
2. You should be getting tan constantly

So I have. I’ve gotten so fucking tan. You know when it’s hard to get tan? When you’re inside an office all day. It’s much easier when you’re a waste of space with no schedule who can “take a break” and go lay outside for two hours.

People really want you to get a new job, but they want you to take advantage of being worthless even more. Give the people what they want. Get tan.

3. Wear haus couture

I will not advise you to “invest” in a house dress/outfit, because you really shouldn’t be spending money right now. However, when you’re not out at coffee shops fixing your resume and applying to 69+ jobs a day between LinkedIn and AngelList, you should be home, not wearing real clothes.

My house outfits rotated between 16-year-old Soffe shorts and a ratty t-shirt, a black bathing suit cover up sans bathing suit underneath, and a plaid sleeveless dress for the days I was feeling fancy. Bras were entirely out of the question, as was makeup (I did shower every day, because I’m not a heathen). Ultimately, the name of the game should be comfort, wearing something non-binding that feels nothing like dress pants...or pants, in general.

4. Eat it all

Lunch in an office is just another way to measure your excellence against your peers’. I’ve had several co-workers over the years who enjoyed commenting on my homemade lunches, I guess thinking that my grilled chicken and roasted sweet potatoes somehow paled in comparison to their Baconator. Who knew that being healthy and actively avoiding a fupa was a sign of inferiority?

Meal prep completely goes out the window when you’re eating at home alone. You can also eat whatever the fuck you want without criticism.

Scrambled eggs and meatballs? Sounds delicious.  

An entire brick of cheddar with an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers? Legendary.

Raw cookie dough? Why not?

There are several negative aspects of being unemployed. Eating as healthy (or unhealthy) as your heart desires without Max in Accounting remarking, “That’s an interesting choice,” is not one of them.

5. Ruin yourself

I thrive off of routine. I am Skylar of the House Korby, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Anxious, Khaleesi of the Great Skin Regimen, Protector of the Highlights, Lady Stringent of the Seven Mini Meals a Day, Breaker of Fasts and Mother of Absolutely No One Thank God.

Since I was no longer waking up at 6:45-7, getting ready to be out the door by 8:00, answering emails and writing blog posts until lunch at 12:30, taking a 30-minute after-lunch walk, eating a snack at 3:30, eating another snack at 4:30, drinking pre-workout green tea at 5:30, leaving at 6:30, working out until 8:00, coming home to watch America’s Next Top Model until 10:30, popping a Zzzquil, and falling asleep by 11:30, I had to figure out how to live my life without a built-in regimen.

It takes 21 days to form a habit. It takes two straight days of sleeping in past 7 am to realize that a 9-5 schedule is horseshit.

Let your schedule go to to hell. Eat breakfast at 9 or 11 or not at all. Go to the gym at 2. Sit around feeling sorry for yourself for 45 minutes. Watch 23 videos in a row of French bulldog puppies. Feel guilty about not enjoying the nice weather, but don’t actually act on the guilt. Do literally whatever the fuck you want, because for the last five years you’ve begun every Monday morning saying, “I really just needed a couple of extra days after the weekend” and now you have them in abundance.

The routine will inevitably return, but the opportunity to attend a sample sale in the middle of the afternoon without conflict (but just to browse--again, you really shouldn’t be spending money right now) shouldn’t be passed up.

Thrust into the Real World: One Year Later

It’s been a year.

A lot has happened. Some great, some undesirable, and some just flat out odd. Such is life.

·         I stopped using the weight loss app and the $17 wedges still hurt my feet. You’d think after all this time they’d be broken in, but fashion doesn’t work that way.

·         A new family lives in my childhood home now. I was convinced people were hiding out in the basement crawlspace for the entire 18 years that we inhabited the place so I might as well bring the fantasy to life for the new kids in that house and set up shop down there ASAP.

·         I totally miss my piece-of-shit, hole-in-the-wall, roach-infested, embarrassingly “furnished” apartment. I’d move back in in a heartbeat. Reggie and I were soul mates; a good soldier never leaves an invertebrate behind.

·         Hilary is proving herself to be quite resilient. My Favorites will never be returned to their previous glory, but we’re getting there. I’m pretty sure the nerve damage from my thigh burns has almost completely reversed itself, too! Light at the end of the tunnel!

·         I ordered Cabernet Franc at a bar tonight and totally knew what to expect. WHAT?! I also have a much greater patience with drunk people and have learned that curling your hair and wearing mascara will garner a day of about $30 in tips, while putting your hair in a messy bun and looking like a train wreck will get you maybe $3. Every day I’m hustlin’.

·         My internship was the best thing that I’ve done in the past twelve months and totally solidified that whole “Everything happens for a reason” thing. I won’t have to buy shampoo til like October, I got to meet some local celebs, and I can proudly say that I was correct in my assumption that Sales Girl #1 was preggo long before she not-so-quietly whispered it her cube mate.

·         My tattoo idea has progressed. “Open A Vein” is still on the table, but two other contenders have entered the octagon, which basically means I’ll never be getting a tattoo because I can barely choose what I want for breakfast in the morning. I am now also considering a pictorial representation of the first lines of Incubus’ “Warning,” with an eye, Saturn, a dove, and lips, OR an ampersand (&) which would represent the idea that the symbol is a broken infinity, because nothing truly lasts forever but there is always an “and.” I also am entertaining the idea of a spine tattoo. Shit’s getting real, you guys.

·         I’ve watched The Notebook more than is socially acceptable. It doesn’t relate to my life nearly as much as it seemed to a few months back. I think I’ll delete that from the DVR tomorrow, actually.

·         My mom just recently asked me how I seem to attract the weirdest of the weirdos and all I can say is that I’m too nice and I think awkward encounters make for good stories so I like to see those types of things through. Also, who doesn’t like it when an innocent old redneck calls you “hunneh” and tells you you’re pretty? If you say you don’t, you’re lying.  

·         My taste in music dropped acid sometime last March and the trip has only gotten more ridiculous since then. The day I added Pantera, Jamiroquai and Wale to the same running playlist I knew I had officially lost it.

So here we are. I survived, and when everything’s said and done I really don’t think I’m any worse for the wear. My hair is back to its normal color, my heart has demonstrated that it’s basically indestructible, and I voluntarily ate zucchini yesterday (?).

Cheers!

This is early adulthood, my friends: it’s fucked up and terrible and wonderful and you cry a lot, both out of pure happiness and not. I’m excited to see what amazing things come next.

Like what you read? I'm this entertaining 24/7 on Twitter. Follow me @BTDubs_Skylar!

Thrust into the Real World: Month 11

This past month has been extremely musical.

Not in a "I'm walking down the street and suddenly all of the passers-by break into song and we all know the same choreography and even though I'm wearing jeans my high kick is phenomenal" kind of way.
Not in a "I find myself in the front row at a John Mayer concert and he starts singing only to me and I realize I'm at the center of a music video about the relationship we're apparently in" kind of way, either.

I don't know what it was, but for some reason whatever situation I encountered, the perfect song seemed to either pop up on Pandora, play on the radio, or emerge on shuffle from a playlist I haven't listened to in at least three years. It was like the music gods were saying, "Here, Skylar, we know how fucking awful you are at deciphering your emotions, so we'll give you a hint with some Sarah McLachlan. Deuces."

Now I'm not saying I would be driving along and Bruno Mars' "If I Was Your Man" would play for the fiftieth time that hour and I'd think, "Ohmigahh he gets me!" No, it was much more ridiculous than that. Songs that literally get no air time ev-ar were repeatedly shooting me straight in the eardrums like radio gunfire and I had to sit there and take it because I believe in signs from the universe and other things relating to fate.

Here are a few of the songs that are apparently trying to tell me something. Some of them are pretty clear-cut, but I could still use a little help figuring out the reasoning behind others. If you have any theories about my life that you think I would take with more than a grain of salt, send them my way!

Incubus - "Oil and Water": You know what guys? Sometimes things just don't work out with people. And since ninth chances aren't really a thing, when you're on a run and this song hits a "glitch" and plays three times in a row you should probably thank Brandon Boyd and then move on with your life. But not before stopping, pulling out your headphones, and screaming, "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK" in front of a group of seven year olds playing in the front yard.

Hall & Oates - "Kiss on My List": Whose kiss? Is someone's kiss on my list or is my kiss on someone else's list? Is my breath okay? Is this some kind of hit list? That's kinda terrifying. How many words rhyme with kiss? Bliss. This. Resist. A lot. Mental note: Buy new Chapstick.

Foo Fighters - "The Pretender": I love Dave Grohl with a fiery passion, so hearing this song as much as I have in the past month has been heavenly. It is included in the arsenal of songs that I have mentally choreographed dances to should I ever abandon my chosen career path du jour and become a dance teacher like I've always dreamed. The final turn sequence from 3:50-4:25 is pretty awesome, let me tell ya. I'm not as mystified by the frequency of this, actually; I'm aware of the fact that I'm living in my high-school-dance-team past and really just want to put off a desk job for as long as possible.

Trey Songz - "Bottoms Up": I have a friend who can perfectly rap the Nicki Minaj part, which is an incredible skill and something I encourage her to add to her resume. Our junior year of college she would demonstrate her gift at every opportunity, and that's when I became smitten with her. Long story short, this song reminds me of when I was fun. I am losing my fun, people! Skylar needs her groove back, and who would've thunk that, of all people, Mr. Steal Yo Girl would lead someone to such an epiphany?

 

Rage Against the Machine - "Renegades of Funk": I had a one-week span recently where this song started playing as soon as I pulled into my internship. Every time. Do you know how jacked up you can get to write about hair products when you start your day off with Zach De La Rocha screaming at you to "Groove sucka!"?! I'm sad that week is over.

 

 

 

Like what you read? I'm this entertaining 24/7 on Twitter. Follow me @BTDubs_Skylar!



Thrust into the Real World: Month 10

This month, the creepers came out to play. Reasonably warm weather and the fact that I emerged from my hermit shell (aka my bed, in yoga pants, with my hood up) led me into the outside world. There, I was quickly reacquainted with strange men with zero perception of just how unwelcome their forwardness and ineffective pick-up lines truly were.

Here are a few of my favorite interactions:

Chris the Wigger:
“Ay girl.”
“..Hi.”
"You’s beautiful.”
“Well thank you.”
“You a country girl?”
“What?”
“You a country girl? You from da country?”
“…I like being outside…?”
“We should go four-wheeling sometime.”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme get yo number, we can go four-wheeling. On a four-wheeler.”
“Great.”
“So what’s yo number beautiful?”
“How about I get your number instead?”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”
[Gives me number. Watches me put it in my phone. In a rookie move, looks away for a split second. I delete his number.]
“Alright, I’ve got it!”
“You should call me and we’ll cheel, aiight?”
“I’m psyched.”
“You look cold. Wanna wear my jacket?”
“Not really.”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”

Dubiously “Olympic” Gymnast:
“I was in the Olympics.”
“Are you sure?”

 

iPhone App Developer:
[After finding out that he lives in my neighborhood]
“I live on Ferrier’s Court. Where do you live?”
“…Close to there.”
“How close?”
“Pretty close.”
“Like the next street over? The street after that?”
“Well it’s a big neighborhood so maybe it’s not as close as I thought.”
“Hunter Green Circle? Raspberry Drive?”
“….”
“Cranberry Street? We should hang out; I’m lonely in my house. I live there by myself. Alone.”
“You know actually I don’t think I live there anymore.”

Robbie the Dead Head:

*Whistles*
“…”
“You are gawrgeous, baby.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s yer name?”
(in my head: Veronica? Jade? Whitney? Felicia?)
“Skylar.” (in my head: FUCK.)
“HOO HOO re-heally? I live on Skylar street!”
“Really? That’s cool. How’s it spelled?”
“S-C-H-I-L-E-R! Why how do you spell yer name hunneh?”
“Exactly like that. WHAT a coincidence. Is there a street sign?”
“Yeah.”
“You should steal me the street sign so I can hang it in my room.”
“WE should steal the street sign together. What’s yer number baby?”
“I’m afraid of danger. How about I get your number, and I call you in a few weeks to see if you’ve stolen it for me yet?”
“Well all raht!”
“Yay.”

Thrust into the Real World: Month 9

This month was so rahndom.

 





Good things that happened:

• My internship is turning out to be freaking amazing and I love every second of it.
• I have been told by the lady working at C Wonder, a guest at the winery I work at, and a creepy Friday Night Bar Dad that I have a great smile. This is huge, considering how much debilitating humilitation I suffered at the hands of braces all the way through age 17. Everyone else looked like models at homecoming and I was a troll. We can all laugh now. Ha. Ha.
• I had a dream that I was Nicolas Cage and was running down my old street strapped with an AK shooting people I don't particularly care for, but only in the leg because I'm not vicious. I vividly remember trying to look cool as I ran with the gun, which is impossible because I was literally a 5'1" Nicolas Cage. There was so much going wrong and yet it felt so, so right.

Not-so-great things that happened:

• Between all of the special events (taking place all over DC, Maryland, and Northern VA) I got to cover for my internship and the fact that it takes an hour and a half to travel twenty miles in this godforsaken place, I spent a fortune on gas. Whatever, I'll just blame Obama.
• I remembered that I DVR'd "The Notebook" sometime back in December and anytime I had a free moment I would watch it. This led to a lot of crying and unnecessary relating-the-movie-to-my-life. I'm embarrassed.

I apologize for how boring this post was. Welcome to my everyday life. Here, let me make it up to you:

 

Thrust into the Real World: Month 8

This month I began to seriously consider getting my first tattoo.

 

This is surprising for several reasons:

1.      I have a very low pain tolerance. When the dentist novocaines me and then asks if I “felt that pinch,” I always say yes, even if I didn’t, just to be on the safe side. I’ve made it perfectly clear that when I get my wisdom teeth out I want to be put into a medically-induced coma for at least three days, because I want nothing to do with that entire procedure.

2.      I’ve always said that in this day and age, it’s more unique to be tattoo-less than inked up, and we all know how much I like to go against the grain.

3.      This guy took my original idea, and how do you top that?

 

The quote I’m considering has always been a favorite of mine, and definitely conveys exactly what it is that I do every time I sit down to compose something for you lovely people. Whether it’s something a little more somber or absolutely preposterous, the words you’re reading are a window straight into this awkwardly-shaped head of mine. Regardless of if you find me entertaining or not (shut up, you totally do), you should feel very lucky because I’d sooner ramble on for three hours about the pros and cons of owning a Perfect Meatloaf Pan than share my emotions.

 

Let’s break down my idea:

 

Placement: It’s a toss-up between inner forearm or on my fingers. Some of you might think the wrist is very cliché, but A) screw you and B) I use my hands to write with, where else is it gonna go? Go admire the fairy on your foot and never talk to me again.

 

Quote: “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” –Red Smith

I have dwarf arms and baby fingers so the probability of this whole thing fitting anywhere comfortably is slim to none. Therefore, I’d probably shorten it to just “open a vein.”

 

Color: Red.

 

Detail: This is where I’m most indecisive.

If I put it anywhere near my wrist, I want the words to be followed by a quill or fountain pen “cutting” the skin with a little blood dripping. I know this sounds morbid, but it also sounds fucking awesome, and we all know that I’m about as suicidal as a pig in a peach orchard so relax, this isn't a cry for help.

If I put it on my fingers, the fountain pen (outlined in black) would run the length of my middle finger and the words (in red) would be inside the handle.

One option is obviously a little more discreet than the other, but the cool factor beats camouflaging it for job interviews every time, so you can imagine which one I’m leaning towards.

 

If anyone wants to illustrate these ideas out and send them my way I’d be more than grateful; I still draw the same way I did when I was in 3^rd grade so obviously my attempts haven’t completely convinced me yet.

Also, any feedback on whether this sounds legitimately cool or just Skylar cool would be wonderful. I once thought a short spikey pixie cut would look really good on me. Guess which “cool” that was?

Thrust into the Real World: Month 7

This month’s theme was “How to Get Employed Without Really Trying.”

 

I moved back to Virginia, yadda yadda yadda, had to get a new job because a diva is a female version of a hustler and I need dem bagsa dat money, yadda yadda yadda, apparently I’m super personable and well-spoken because within three days of being here I got two jobs and an internship.

 

Now don’t get excited for or be proud of me, because these jobs do not challenge my skill-set whatsoever. I yet again work at a women’s clothing store, honoring coupons and answering the question “Do you have a petite’s section?” when the large black and white sign reading “PETITES” hangs about six feet overhead. I also work at a winery, hosting wine tastings and pretending I know what customers mean when they talk about a chardonnay’s “tannins.” This job is actually pretty cool, mostly because anyone who comes in at 11 a.m. on a Saturday to get sloshed is instantly my best friend. Do I think I’ll abandon my current career path to become a full-blown sommelier? No, because then people genuinely expect you to know the difference between Pinot Gris and Pinot Grigio. Ain’t nobody got time fo that.

 

The internship is actually my pride and joy of this whole shenanigan. Obviously it’s at a magazine again, but this time I’m in the fashion and beauty part of it, which, as How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days has taught me, only leads to good things like free samples and Matthew McConaughey. For avid readers of this blog: take my sense of humor and pair it with a review on Matte Nail Polish: Hot or Not? and you basically have the next four months of my life. I’m seriously so excited!

 

Remember how October sucked? This past month has been October’s prettier, smarter, better-dressed older sister who drives a 2013 Mercedes SL550. I’m thankful to be rakin’ in dough while getting one step closer to moving up to New York and getting paid to write about my opinions on things (although probably with a few less “shit”s). In all honesty, the fact that I’ve started showering and getting out of bed on a regular basis again is enough of a celebration for me. Three cheers for not being a complete fuck-up!

 

Yes.

 

Thrust into the Real World: Month 6

This month sucked. Hard. We're not gonna talk about it.

Here's a picture to help us all forget about it:

Thrust into the Real World: Month 5

I am proud to announce that I am typing this from my new laptop, Hilary.

No relation.

Like the second important woman in any person's life, Hilary is a downgrade. She was $700 cheaper than Wanda, is noticeably slower, and doesn't have the cool swirly designs around the keyboard that I could never decipher. We haven't talked about it yet, but I'm sure she has daddy issues up the wazoo and will probably divulge said issues after a night of tequila shots. I'm psyched.

Luckily, I'm not a judger (I'M REALLY NOT!) and I love Hilary for everything she is and more.

With Hilary, I finally have an excuse to go to the library even though I've graduated, because my love/hate relationship with that place turned to full-on adoration when I rehydrated my shriveled eyeballs after my last all-nighter. Also, despite several failed attempts, I have not figured out how to hack into my neighbors' WiFi accounts, so in the spirit of being a cheap bastard I make the 20-minute trek to campus and get bonus points from my tuition.

One of the most awesome changes that I noticed right away from Hilary was the fact that she maintains battery life. Like right now, she's unplugged, and unlike Wanda the Drama Queen, she keeps on truckin like nothing's wrong. This is the way it should be. Not having to rib-check those who are blocking my access to a free electrical outlet? Am I in Heaven?! She is also not causing third degree burns on my thighs, which I just think is totally sweet.

Finally, Hilary serves a professional purpose. My resume and all other "Help Me Get a Job" documents were saved on Wanda. I'm an idiot, so saving them to something like a thumb drive didn't occur to me (note to future employers: JK IT TOTALLY OCCURRED TO ME I'm responsible and career-driven...). Hold on to your hats, but in this fabulous economy and thriving job market, you somehow can't move forward without a resume. Bumsies. I practically kissed Hilary on the mouth (speaker?) upon purchasing because this meant I could finally amp up my little brag sheet with all of the things I've been up to the past few months, aka people will like me and hire me and I can finally be back on the east coast where I won't get shanked for admitting, "I've never had Skyline before."

Long story short, I'm back in business, and bigger and better things are just around the corner! (Ya hear that, Abraham_Linksys?? Just give me your password and I could roll-bounce! Be a friend to make a friend, dude.)

Thrust into the Real World: Month 4

This was a month of firsts.
It was my first time living completely, entirely by myself in my whole life. This led to me following Alanis Morissette's recommendation of walking around naked in my living room aka the entire apartment, which led to my first meeting of my across-the-airshaft neighbors. They really like me now.
It was my first experience with Reggie the Roach, an eight-foot-tall, 600 pound monster who scared me away from my countertop for a day and a half. I might be exaggerating, but not really. This allowed me to give Lowe's its first experience in selling the largest supply of roach killer imaginable, and now Reggie is mounted on my wall like a prize buck head. DON'T MESS WITH ME.
It was my first time not having a first day of school. I thought I'd have a sentimental breakdown about this, but as soon as the "It's the third day of classes and I already have an exam?!?!" statuses started popping up, my superiority complex reared its perfectly-teased head and I felt juuuust fine.
It was my first time ever having my power and gas shut off. My mom and dad did a great job of never letting this happen when I was growing up, and despite the dumpiness of some of my living spaces in college, I could at least always ensure my straightener would turn on. What...a luxury. The biggest #firstworldproblem that arose from this was the fact that I could not keep my phone adequately charged, which (when coupled with my lack of digital clock) meant I never knew what time it was and had to rely on primitive instincts to determine when I should leave for work. FYI: darkness means its 8 pm.
So my life has more or less calmed down. Hopefully more fun firsts continue to come my way, while Reggie's vengeful relatives continue to quiver in fear instead of eating my face in my sleep.

Thrust into the Real World: Month 3

  If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be borderline homeless, gather round, children, and lend me your ears.

I started off this month with a trip home to good ole V to the A. Because a visit is not a visit without some underlying chore, one of the main things I was assigned to tackle was the packing up of my room. My parents have decided that now is as good of a time as ever to up and move, which means that eighteen years worth of memories, knick-knacks, and third grade school projects get to be shoved in boxes and moved to a house that we’re all expected to have some sort of connection to come Christmas time. I am admittedly the most annoyingly emotional and sentimental person in our family, so naturally, every day I spent purging old books and discovering where my Barbies have been after all this time was met with a rousing session of bawling my eyes out while sitting on the floor in my closet. I’m 22 years old, and I still had to “say goodbye” to my room and thank it for all the good times. Tip: don’t listen to John Mayer’s “Stop This Train” as you pull out of your driveway presumably for the last time ever, because when he sings the “And you don’t miss a thing/til you cry while you’re driving away in the dark” part, you WILL burst into tears and almost side-swipe a parked car.

After I chilled the eff out a little, I realized that I’m a big girl now, and big girls have their own apartments. Before I left for home, I had submitted an application for the cutest little studio in the world, and had more or less had it guaranteed to me. This was going to time out perfectly: they’d process my app while I was gone, I’d return, move out of my old apartment, and move right in to my new place where I’d have two closets to sit on the floors of. Tip: don’t trust leasing agents, because they do not operate on the same psychological wavelength as the rest of us, and they’ll shoot your plans straight to hell with an AK-47. My leasing lady, who we will call Brainless, decided not to submit my app to the powers at be until two days before I returned to the Ville, meaning that the peachy-keen timeline that I had laid out for myself could now be used as toilet paper. Do you know what it’s like to drive down the highway with everything you own blocking your rear view and fending off the bags of shoes that keep attacking you from the passenger’s seat? Do you know what it’s like to actually get used to driving this way, because two weeks later you’re still not in your apartment? Do you know what it’s like to feel constantly apologetic towards everyone around you because of all of the favors you have to keep asking? Do you know what it’s like to scream, “I can’t right now! Maybe next weekend!” at Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman” when they sing, “All my women, who independent, throw them hands up at me”? I fucking do.

So here’s where I stand: I drove away from a home that, after Septemberish, will no longer be my home, but an empty house with some minor water damage and excellent faux painting on the walls. I drove away from another home, which has seen a wine-glass-throwing fight and way too many laughs at the expense of my roommate’s Pomeranian. I’m currently staying at someone else’s home where there is a ghost named Frosty and a two-year-old honey-baked ham in the freezer. 

My roommates and I joked about having to live in cardboard boxes on the side of the road if we couldn’t find new apartments; that joke isn’t funny anymore. If and when I ever move in to my new place, I plan to just sit on the floor and either laugh hysterically or cry uncontrollably, as is, apparently, my new shtick. Way to go, Brainless, you’ve reduced me to a blubbering psychopath.

Tip: when staying with others, cook. A lot. No one hates someone’s forced presence when there are brownies in the oven.

Thrust into the Real World: Month 2

Things have not gotten better in my second month of forced adulthood.

First of all, apartment hunting is not only a huge pain in the ass, but also, it makes me want to die. Like I was actually driving to work this morning and thought, “Huh, you know what would make this housing search a lot less stressful and would allow me to sleep through the night without nightmares of homelessness and shame? Getting massacred by that huge eighteen-wheeler filled with gasoline barreling down behind me.”

That, my friends, is morbid. But I’m nothing if not honest, and I figured if I got into a harrowing car accident [that I somehow survived because I’m one resilient mofo], at least I’d get a cushy stay in a hospital bed for a few weeks and could continue to Google one-bedrooms with the assistance of a morphine drip.

Because the stress of home-hunting has left me broken and battered, I have realized that I heavily depend on two things to quell my anxiety: Diners Drive-ins and Dives, and My Drunk Kitchen. It should come as no surprise that my bank account hasn’t really improved in the last month, and I’m still broke as a joke making meals out of canned green beans and Yoplait Lights (100-calorie White Chocolate Strawberry: get in my belleh), but these two shows are solely responsible for keeping me from making horrible decisions.

Number one: Instead of stress-eating (as I am prone to do), I watch Guy Fieri do The Hunch over a massive bacon-wrapped bison burger, and in my malnutritioned state of being, I can actually taste said burger in my mouth, and my stomach is satisfied. Juices dripping to my elbows, cheese grease slicked across my face, pieces of lettuce sticking to the corners of my mouth. Nom. Side note: I don’t even like burgers, which is an even greater testament to how close I am to becoming a featured charity case on a Christian Children’s Fund commercial.

Number two: Alcohol is not the answer….Until you’re forced to get your apartment application co-signed and you start crying in front of the leasing agent and all of the precious decorating plans you made for the PERFECT studio apartment you found all retreat into the distance as Nickelback plays mockingly and mercilessly in the background. Ten Months Ago Skylar would’ve picked the world up and dropped it on its fuckin head while simultaneously chugging a bottle of Pinot. NOT ANYMORE. Hannah Hart does this for me, while hilariously creating “meals” that really just consist of passing a bottle of Svedka back and forth and making witty puns that even I didn’t see coming. The best part about this is, I am distracted by my pathetic post-grad life for a good  3 ½ minutes; I get in a much-needed laugh or twenty; and for some reason (and my roommate backs me on this), you can watch these videos without a glass of anything alcoholic and I swear you’re still buzzed afterward. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

Stayed tuned for next month’s update! Perhaps I’ll actually be living in a place that has a roof, typing up these posts on a brand new computer, occupied by things other than a man with peroxide-blonde Dragon Ball Z hair? Dare to dream, friends.

Thrust into the Real World: Month 1

It would be wonderful if I could tell you that, since graduating on May 12, I had secured my dream job and was moving to Boston to become a successful twenty-something with a fabulous loft apartment and a newfound taste for Chai Tea lattes.

This could probably not be more false.

Instead, my entrance into the real world has consisted of downloading a weight loss app, riding a mechanical bull, and buying a pair of wedges on mega clearance ($70 down to $17, I’m still not over it). My one saving grace is the fact that my name has finally been printed in the magazine I’m interning for, and even with that I’m trying not to overanalyze just how much of an asset they consider me to be after listing my name last out of all interns (alphabetizing be damned).

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

Is it still acceptable that I’m eating Ramen and canned tuna and considering them both to be balanced meals?

Isn’t my resume magically supposed to be overflowing with achievements and valuable experience by now?

Aren’t I supposed to be discovered by some Hollywood agent who sees promise in my mildly offensive humor and ignores my lack of acting experience, making me the new long-lost cousin on Modern Family?

When exactly do I have to stop taking satisfaction in passive aggressive Facebook status fights between couples?

What the hell is this whole “adulthood” bullshit?

I did not spend four years of my life Sparknotesing Shakespeare just to learn that half of the apartments advertised on Craigslist are actually in the ghetto and that coin laundry is not, in fact, a thing of the past. Getting frustrated with the whole apartment-search experience has, however, led me to my newest hobby/obsession: Craigslist personals ads, specifically Men Seeking Trannies. But I digress.

Hopefully, I’ll find a job sometime in the near future that does not require me to ask “Are you looking for jeans today?” or “Would you like the receipt with you or in the bag?” Until then, I just hope that at least a few other post-grad lives out there look as bleak and unassuming as mine. Now if you’ll excuse me, One Day is on HBO for the twelfth time in the past three weeks and I’d like to go criticize Anne Hathaway’s debatably “British” accent.