Do you know who I am?

"You stupid f----ing b----!"

I'm so glad that I went through seven years of higher education to be showered in four-letter words and told that I don't know what I'm doing by common criminals.

It gets old, putting on that suit with sensible shoes every morning. In the summer, the 3-block walk makes me sweaty, and by the time I make it to and fro, I reek. All I want to do is take a 30-minute shower and down a fifth of tequila.

Then there's the winter. God, the winter is horrible. I spend about 16 weeks of winter either mildly or miserably ill. I writhe on my couch with a searing headache and scratchy throat. I cough until my insides ache. I go through at least 20 boxes of tissues. The reason this happens is the forced trek to and fro up that cursed hill. And when I get there, again I am cursed out, beaten down, disrespected and resented.

So, when my client busted out the four-letter words on me yesterday, I began evaluating my life. Here's the bottom line: I hate my job most days. I hate my home life. I hate my family. There's only one solution: I have to bite the bullet and make some big life changes. The sooner, the better. This stupid f---ing b---- is done putting up with everyone's bulls---.

sometimes, i just sits and thinks.

If you actually are an idiot, is unfair if I treat you like one?

You are obsessive about the strangest and most pointless things. Not watching a movie because you've missed part of it. Not reading books mid-series; reviewing all previous books in a series if you haven't read them in a while and the author adds a new one. Missing an episode of a tv show. This is enough to make your mind spin, and you tell me it's because you can't figure out what's already happened when you do this. This means that you are an idiot.

That's only the beginning. There's also an inability to put dirty socks anywhere but my living room floor, a disdain for clothing if you aren't "going out," and that European nonchalance for whether you've shaved or brushed your teeth, say, any time this week.

Then there's your sci-fi obsession, phobia of the gym, and desire for all the things in life that interest me the least--a house, kids, and matching last names. Oh, and let's just clarify that you are in no way going to assist in paying for any of those milestones because no one wants to hire you. Again, this is because you are an idiot.

The thing that frustrates me the most, though? That, despite all this, you have no idea why people think you're slow, odd, and/or irritating. Here's a hint: it's because you are.

How are you?

Why do you feel the need to ask me this? I am wearing sweatpants. My hair hasn't been combed in days. I don't even know what day it is anymore. Behind me are 3 bags, a lunchbox and my purse. How am I? I'm a vagrant who survives on baloney, processed cheese, Sun Chips and peanut butter. I don't remember what it's like to have dinner with friends. I've stopped drinking not because of some moral objection, but because I simply don't have time to drink.

Someone. Please. Make this stop.

v a n i s h i n g

Next weekend will probably be the end of you and me. Our last hurrah before you marry some guy and move away from me, like all my other friends. It's a little saddening, on the one hand; on the other, it is entirely relieving.

When we were young, you were fun. You wore Goodwill clothes and didn't care if your thong hung out of them. You didn't know who Ann Klein was, and you thought that renting a movie, eating brownies, and chugging surrepetitiously-obtained boxes of wine was the best way to spend a night. You didn't judge people. You didn't think you were God's gift.

Then, somehow, I lost you. You got that job with that Senator. You put on your suit and stockings and started buying makeup that costs more than my weekly groceries. You socialize with big names, to whom you mean absolutely nothing. You tell me that my shoes are ugly, my boyfriend is ugly, and really make no qualms that, deep down, you think I am pathetic. Christ, last week, you asked me when I was going to get a "real job." Pumpkin, you make $30,000 a year. Stop judging me.

If these are my true feelings, why am I sad? It's not really the loss of you, so much. Please, take your stuff and go on with your life. I'm sad because you're the last one; the last of the close college group to run off on me. Not all of them are married now, but all but I have moved away, on to their grown-up lives and fairytale endings in faraway places. This time next month, it's all up to me. Who will fill the void?

relics.

I found an old bracelet and matching necklace today and decided to wear them. Sitting here thinking about it, I realize that nearly ten years have passed since you gave them to me. You're long-since buried, and so is the store where we bought them. Glistening sublimely on my arm, I remember wearing the bracelet to special occasions over the years. Nice college banquets. Holiday get-togethers with family. Weddings. Graduation parties.

Then, I remember forgetting about this jewelry's very existence. I let it slip to the bottom of one of my drawers, where jewelry goes to die. I stopped wearing bracelets altogether. I started wearing necklaces from men who make promises as flimsy as the thin gold chains that they offer. But this jewelry set has waited for me. It's been patient. And as it shines brighter than anything I've acquired recently, it makes me miss you. With or without the jewelry, though, I probably always will.

tail lights.

We'll still see one another. Nothing's really going to change. We should get drinks some time. It'll all be fine.

Except, it won't. Well, maybe it will be fine. Maybe we'll still see one another. Maybe we'll even get that drink. But it's never going to be the same, and I realize that as your wheels spin away and your tail lights fade into one, tiny red dot on the horizon.

second best.

You asked me last night--aren't you the class valedictorian this time? No pressure there. I said, no. I'm not even graduating cum laude. You said, oh. Well. What happened? Why didn't we do well this time?

First off, WE didn't do anything. YOU put on your pajamas three years ago and went into hibernation, coming out only to call me, on average, one thousand times a day to guilt me about not being at home, not spending time with you, and not doing better than my snot-nosed 18-year-old cousin is doing in her FIRST YEAR as a FASHION DESIGN MAJOR. During that time, you forgot that I already graduated college TWO YEARS AHEAD OF EVERYONE ELSE with TWO MAJORS and a 4.0 GPA.

Second, doesn't it get lonely up there, looking down on me? Never mind that you've been unemployed for decades now. You will always be better.

Then, you say, let's have a party! You can "invite your little friends!" Well, that would be a swingin' good time. You'll sit off to the sidelines with my ancient aunts and complain about how I'm a failure because I'm not the valedictorian. They will antagonize me with the aforementioned cousin. You won't approve of the friends who would brave meeting you, and they will be miserable. And when we all get there, what are we going to do? Play with Barbie dolls and sing kumbaya?

Too little, too late. You can't be anywhere near as disappointed with me as I am with you.

Lost.

I have two weeks left of life as I know it.

For the past seven years, I have been in college or grad school. Seven. Before that, I went through twelve years of regular schooling. So now, as I wrap up the nineteenth grade, I'm starting to wonder about myself. Sure, I'm tired of doing homework. I'm also tired of going to class, smiling at people I hate who hate me back; tired of working a crappy job for crappy pay, and having to be grateful for it because that crappy job is the best I can hope to do in our economy without a professional degree.

Notwithstanding all of that, I'm not sure what I'm ever going to do with myself. Yes, the bar is coming, and I will have another three months of studying. But then what? Will it be a relief to come home and not face homework? I think it might be more stressful. After all, without being foreced to do something, what will I ever do with myself?

Hatch, already.

The worst part of any holiday, for me, is the anticipation. You know, that impending misery of spending hours upon hours with people you have spent your whole life trying to escape. Well, maybe you don't know. For most people, today is a happy day to spend with people you love. I guess my problem is a general lack of people I love, let alone love spending time with.

But once the anticipation is over, and I'm driving here, it's not so bad. Then it's just a survivor race. How long can I stand being badgered, criticized, and annoyed? Four hours? Five? An entire day? A week? If I make it an endurance test, a game, it's not so bad. If I don't, the anticipation is justified, and then we're back to square one.

Sauna.

I must stop spending money. This month, I will not buy any more clothes. I will not buy any shoes. Last month, I probably spent $1,000 on clothes...some of these will be very useful (for example, the summer-weight suit). Others, I will probably forget I bought them a month or two from now. They will go to the back of my closet to die, like all their impractical brethren.

This month, when I feel the need to buy something, I will go to the gym instead. That ought to kill the old shopping habit.

This summer, things are going to be terrible. A special kind of mind-numbing, God-I-wish-I-would-have-picked-another-profession terrible. I need to get used to living on very little, and entertaining myself very infrequently. It also wouldn't hurt to lose a couple of pounds. Although, it's going to be kind of disheartening when I have to buy another new wardrobe.