I "majored" in Psychology for almost 2 years. I use quotes because it was freshman and sophomore year- at CBC. So... less than legit. It ended up getting too science-y and technical and -ology like in the end. And really, what would I have done with a Psych degree? Been a counselor? Listened to people bitch all day? No, thank you. I hate people. And their problems.
As you can see, I'm ill-suited to be in a field that works so intimately with the human race... I'm much more an 'observe from afar' kind of girl... but regardless of my aptitude and desires, I decided to switch my major to business. Because you don't typically encounter people in the business world... The switch was mostly because I was fucking awesome at DECA in high school, and I didn't really know what else to do. I lasted about half a quarter (an eighth, if you will), because, well, I didn't like it.
In addition to psychologist and... business woman?... through out my formative years I also wanted to be:
a lawyer (I'm really good at lying)
an anesthesiologist (they're rich and they get to do crosswords all day)
a songwriter (I'm super poetic with words and stuff, and I played the oboe)
a psychiatrist (I can spot mental illness from miles away... and I always thought it'd be cool to wield the power of prescribing anti-psychotics)
an editor (I enjoy finding, pointing out and exploiting flaws in people, be it grammatical or otherwise)
a photographer (you should see my landscapes of Pullman bars and Palouse highways. Ansel Adams, who?)
a documentary filmmaker (I'm still kind of into this one... I like documenting things. I like film. Boom. Career. Next...)
While I thought myself incredibly well-suited for all of these occupations, none of them every really got past the early stages of inception. I would tell my friends that I "finally figured out my life's passion!" and they'd agree and say things that were encouraging, all the while non-committal and sort of rude. "Law school, huh? And you thought playing fast and loose with the law and your apparent lack of moral fiber would be good for nothing..."
Even though I decided to be a writer years and years ago, I still play the what-if scenario in my head. Like, what if I were a...
Typographer. Who knew there were so many fonts?! And that people actually made them?! I don't know where I thought they came from before I discovered typography... I figured they just appeared out of thin air, like Jevon at a buffet.
Helvetica. Times New Roman. Courier. The horror that is Comic Sans and Papyrus (blogger doesn't support those fonts, for good reason)... Fonts are everywhere. They're art. They can be authoritative, or silly... they can be clean and crisp or intricate.
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| Yeah fucking right I'll stop. |
Private Eye, AKA full-time Facebook stalker: I am creepy as hell. I can admit this. I deleted my old Facebook with hundreds upon hundreds of people friended, and now have like, 80. Most of whom I actually do know in real life. And you know what? They are sooooooooo boring. Gone are the many status updates belittling someone's baby-daddy. No longer am I up to date with the happenings of my hot science TA and the many girls from my lab with whom he was fornicating. I can't log in and feel better about myself because everyone on my current friend list is too normal and well-adjusted. Ugh. Losers.
I was just so good at it. The stalking, that is- which is why downsizing my online presence was all for the best. For awhile there, I knew too much. The enormity of information at hand was entirely seductive- and I did not handle it well. I'm too nosy of a person to be able to have so much drivel at my fingertips. Seeing acquaintances lost its appeal because I already knew that they had an "awful day! three cavities at the dentist, parking ticket, and I come home and find out my fridge broke!"... What the hell were we going to talk about at the Sports Page, then? Future aspirations? How grim.
Pro-Whistler: I don't know, I'm just really good at it. Perfect pitch, vast range... I can even pull some didgeridoo shit and whistle while inhaling so that my tune is unblemished by the pesky need to breathe.
Chalkboard Artist: Something about scrawling on a blackboard with a chalky medium really soothes me. I started noticing this when I was commissioned to draw cookies on the board at Starbucks (I worked there, it's not like I was buying my latte and they said, "Ma'am, are you handy with liquid chalk?). Many of the patrons thought my cookies were potatoes- to which I said; we don't even serve potatoes... why the fuck would we decorate our store with them!? But, matter not. I was hooked.
Once I started working at the winery, my love for chalkboards segued into a love for bigger chalkboards that stand outside.
It really does smell like wine in there.
Now it's kind of my thing. Chalkboard girl. That's me...
I've been called worse.
Mix-CD Maker: I'll just come right out and say it. I make a mean playlist. At least, I think I do. I sample some classics with some Top 40... I've got several gbs to work with. The only problem is, I can listen to some songs over, and over, and over, and over... without getting tired of them. Just like I can watch certain movies many a time to the point of memorization. Some people might think this kind of behavior signals Autistic tendencies, or a moderate case of OCD. I beg to differ. I just know what I like.
Anyway, when we're on a road trip, or when we need a mix at work, I'm your girl. My mixes transcend genres, occasions and time itself. Also, if I'm not controlling the music in any given situation, I turn into a real bitch. But that's not why they ask me to make mixes... they ask me because I have a knack for it. I promise :/
Heart-string Tugger: Another thing I've noticed over the years is that I'm pretty good at making people cry. Whether it's because of my laziness (my parents were usually susceptible to this one, cry me a freaking river, guys), my cruel nature, or my propensity to just hit them where it hurts, I can always draw out some semblance of emotion. I made someone cry last week at the bar. It was by unknowingly mentioning something that brought them tremendous pain, and I didn't feel particularly good about it afterward, but still. It's definitely a tangible skill.
I could put it to use by penning sappy greeting cards, or writing silly love songs. For a very reasonable one-time fee, I could jot down eulogies that will have the congregation rolling... in tears. You want a maid of honor speech that will have her mascara running down her face onto her ivory Vera Wang Chantilly lace applique a-line gown? I've got you covered.
Number Rememberer: I'm pretty good with numerical-ish things. Like dates, and phone numbers. 867-5309? Yeah, Tommy Tutone, that's Jenny. She wrote her number on the wall, and, I remembered it. And you got it. Something like that.
I don't exactly know when this came about, because I couldn't remember a single damn equation in any math class I've ever been enrolled in, and usually I can't find my keys. But do you want to know the SKU number of this one cup we sold at Starbucks that kept cutting people so we had to recall it? Of course you don't, it's useless information. Unless your cup turned itself into a bit of a shiv... in which case you should probably know it was 11003503. Check your tumblers. Get your refund.
Time-waster: I'm best at this. I'm actually better at wasting time than anything else. That's why I know so many random things- because I learn them when I should be doing something else. Like sleeping. Or hanging out with people. Or writing... which brings me to this:
Through-out all my 'discovering my life's passions' and figuring out the things I could have been great at (stalking, whistling, etc.), I always come back to being a writer. And not one of those "oh I just write for me, I love it and I don't care if I ever make a dime..." kind of writers, either. I would like to make a living from it. A modest one is fine. Minimum wage, I don't care. I'd even settle for being rather poor. I just want to write.
Knowing what you want to do, and what you were meant to do, and what you will do, is kind of a relief. It's the only thing 'relieving' about wanting to be a writer, to be honest.
I can pretty much be sure that I will never have a steady paycheck from writing. If I ever do publish a book or sell a script, there will be a number of people that think it's complete shit. Also, I know that my own work will never be good enough. It will never be edited well enough, or brilliant or funny enough, or as sincere as I meant it to be. I'll re-read it years after 'finishing' it and be disgusted with the errors glaring at me from the page.
There might be a day when I run out of things to say, and while that's frightening now, I can only imagine how devastating it will be the day it happens.
But, I know my calling. Maybe I'm no good at it- but I love it enough that I will spend every day trying to get better. Maybe it will never happen for me- but I'm delusional enough to think it will.
And, if all else fails, I can always fall back on one of my aforementioned skills. How cool would it be if I were a professional chalkboard typographer who stalks people via social networking sites as I whistle a sad, sad song I wrote and burned to a mix CD whose SKU is 12983475?!
It'd be really cool, obviously.
This absolutely made my day. Period.
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