everybody has one, most people are one

I'm almost 25 and I'm not famous yet.

To be honest, I'm a little surprised. Well, my 18 year old self is surprised, but my 24 year old self is sort of like, "You haven't had carbs in 3 days? I'm really proud of you."

I remember seeing a former Northwestern theatre major's Facebook education change to Harvard Law. My heart sank as I thought, "Is that what will happen to me when I'm 25? I'll have given up on my dreams?"

When going to Harvard Law sounds like giving up, you are an asshole. But here I am eons away from Harvard Law. I wish I could teach the next generation not to be assholes like I was.

Scratch that, I thought about this for a 5 minute down-my-wine break.

They should be assholes. They're young, smart, and the prettiest they'll ever be. People still buy them drinks at bars. There are still movies written about their age group because there are still exciting things happening to them.

College kids, enjoy your asshole vanity to the max while you can still get away with it.

The trick? Just don't let people know you're an asshole.

I live with a guy I HATED in college. OK, hate is a strong word, but I literally left parties he showed up to. Don't feel bad for him, everybody else loved him. Was I jealous? No. I was 6'1 and blonde. But oh man, I ignored his entire existence. But then I had my face rubbed into the shit covered sidewalks of NYC and needed a place to live. My shit covered face ended up writing him a check every month. Now, I'm snuggled under a blanket on the couch next to him playing video games.

The point is, you will have to grow up and eat shit someday. Otherwise, people find out you're an asshole. By that time, you're balding, and there's nothing worse than a bald asshole (that is a person). But if I hadn't believed I was the best thing that ever walked the halls of every building I was in from the ages of 18-22, I wouldn't be where I am. In fact, people who were bigger assholes than I was in college are far more successful.

They're still kind of assholes, but they have a lot of hair left.

Do be ready to get called out on the way. Other assholes like to try and take you down by shining a light on your assholeness. Just agree with them. Assholes like to be agreed with.

And if being an asshole somehow fails you, and your world starts crumbling beneath your feet,

just try being nice. Not as fun, but typically yields the same results.

But always be pretty,

TJB: Making It

LOOKING

Balls

Believe it or not, I played a lot of sports growing up. Sure, I also danced and wore a lot of sequined vests
(they eventually won out), but I could hold my own on the court. In fact, I was that kid whose dad coached everything. There was nothing worse as a pre-teen than everybody thinking your dad was cool.

I had one of those daydreams recently where I stared blankly at the wall replaying every I-should've-had-it-in-the-bag moments over the past years, until I realized I still had shampoo in my hair and hadn't even lifted the loofah. As much as I try to avoid regret and emotions at all costs, I was sucked back into a string of if-only-I-had-justs. 

We get a lot of advice in life. Unfortunately, the people giving advice don't have to deal with the consequences. If the advice works out, great. They can say, "I told you so." If the advice doesn't work out, you're left to say, "I should've trusted my gut," months later while standing in the shower with John Frieda Sheer Blonde running down your face. 

But there's one piece of advice that has yet to fail me ever since it was shouted from the dugout by a pretty cool coach (though I rolled my eyes 12 years ago).

"If you're going to strike out, strike out swinging."

Full count. You could take your chances and stand still, hope the pitcher buckles under stress, and slowly walk to first base. But that leaves the call to the umpire.  If you decide to swing, you could hit a homerun. Sure, you might miss, but at least you'll look like a badass with a bat who made your own call. 

To get back to gay, I realized - as I was subtly lightening my hair with expensive salon products - that too often in the past have I allowed the umpire to make the call. What to wear, what to sing, what to say, I let the pitch pass and hoped for the walk. Sad to say, it's resulted in a lot of walks back to the dugout. 

So eighteen days into 2014, I've finally found my resolution. This year, I will strike out swinging

and hope for a homerun. 

And I'll drink a lot of Capri Suns, 

TJB: Making It

MANuscript

Do you know what's really hard?

Dating.

See? You knew that. That's something you know.

I used to subscribe to the Sex and the City mentality that we all have two great loves (Season 5, Episode 1, Anchors Away, F*ck You Charlotte). I had even pinpointed who those two people were, which - as I'm sure you can imagine - made the following relationships all very fulfilling and successful. 

But that episode was 2002. Throw in an unlimited data plan, six dating websites, an increase in the frequency and convenience of public transportation and HOLY HELL you can really go through them.

My first boyfriend was afraid to swallow pills. He battled his anxiety with venti quad Americanos and raspberry white mochas from Starbucks.

My second boyfriend used to lift me up and pretend we were in The Lion King  opening sequence. I was Simba, he was Rafiki. It wasn't as cute as it sounds. At least not after the 5th time.

My third boyfriend once snorted Prozac off of the bar at my friend's birthday party. He claimed I overreacted because he had a prescription for it, so it was no big deal.

My fourth boyfriend was a dancer. Enough said.

My fifth boyfriend couldn't eat pork. For religious reasons, sure, but it made ordering pizza really difficult. It was doomed from day one.

I'm sure there are people I'm leaving out who considered themselves my boyfriends, but including them isn't going to make either of us look better now. You're welcome.

If you can guess which of the two listed I had considered my two great loves, then you've thought far too much into this and I'm sad for you. The point is, there's a strange feeling that sinks in when you realize you're not hung up on somebody anymore. You're the melancholy meadowlark, sad to be let out of the cage until you realize you're free to discover new kinks and better ways to be tied down.

I took it from a bird reference to a BDSM reference. Dad is going to be really proud.

All 2014 has brought me so far is an increase in my student loan payments and a date where I called the boy a wrong name three times. So, I'm getting hung up on the pen and not the penis. It's time to get back to that book deal.

(My mom said to write something uplifting. I'm counting the dick jokes.)

More penis puns please,

TJB: Making It

Frigid B*tch

Sallie GAY

I considered working out today, but I decided to call Sallie Mae instead.

And boy is my ass tired.

They're sweet talkers, I'll give them that. The conversation was very "Baby, It's Cold Outside".

Cue music.

Me: "I really can't pay."
Sallie Mae: "But baby, we'll either f*ck you now or f*ck you later. Point is: you're not going anywhere until we take you from behind."

At least having a loan from CHASE would feel appropriately titled. Owing money to a Sallie Mae is so emasculating.

This is the type of relationship I have to awkwardly bring up when somebody proposes to me in 10 years. "Hey, I really love you a lot, but there's somebody else that's had a choke-hold on my dick since I was 18, so..."

I just have to keep imagining the day when people will be reading this blog on their Kindle Apocalypse and both of my "You Pick Two" at Panera can be Signature Items.

I'll be so remotely famous that Time Out Chicago  will review me and my parents won't have to ignore my texts for money.

I can see you read them, Mom.

I haven't had a drink in four days. Take THAT AA.

JK I had a martini yesterday but just one,

TJB: Making It

201?

The new year was exciting until approximately 2 a.m. when I was left chugging a bottle of sparkling water found on my bedroom floor to wash down the three day old Chinese food that now coats my pillow.

The holiday decorations are being ripped down to make room for snow covered trash, salted to Oregon Trail status. I've already ruined three pairs of shoes. The most eventful thing that will happen for the next three months? People sarcastically damning themselves for writing 2013.

It's been two thousand fourteen years. We get it. Change is hard. But we have a black president now, so just backspace and hit 4.

I made the mistake of waking up on January 1 and checking my student loan payments.

They've doubled.

There's something funny about White Privilege where your mind skips "get a second job" and goes straight to "prostitution".  Do people still carry cash? I'll just camp out by an ATM.

A few weeks ago, I was feeling incredibly positive. Seriously, I wrote like...a really upbeat post. Then, I had a conversation about how awful it's going to be to turn 24 in March.

Guys, I've been 24 for nine months. There goes prostitution. I won't hit another niche market until I'm 40.

What the hell, 2014? How do I pretend to focus on my art if I have to make money full time? I tried that in Chicago and I was still as broke as my parents in 1983. I mean, if our children have to work as hard as we did, are we even progressing as a society?

Also, if kids can be pop stars, why can't they work in factories?

The fear of a new year brings so many unanswered questions. I guess that's the exciting thing about life. This time last year, I was still sleeping on my friend's couch, jobless and covered in glitter.

GOD, that was a comfy couch.

I'll just have to do what I did so well in college. Make up the answers and write an apology to my T.A. on the last page for not taking the class seriously enough due to my expansive life interests and dedication to the arts.

That's always good for a B+.

Sorry Northwestern,

TJB: Making It