“I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can’t tell fast enough, the ears that aren’t big enough, the eyes that can’t take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.”—— Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Painting my nails, then going to Buffalo Exchange to sell some clothes for some cash, then going into the city to apply at a clothing store that would pay me more in one day than I make in three days at AA. Then on to White Trash Bingo!
I’m starting to wonder if moving to Greenpoint was the right choice. I really love it here but honestly, I can’t afford it. I’ve been working six days a week and I barely have enough money for rent/metro card/phone bill. I’ve applied to 30 different jobs in the last couple of weeks with only two interviews. I really want to stay, but I can’t be poor like this for much longer.
But! It was my New Years resolution to get out of Bushwick, to get a better job, and to not borrow money from my grandma. I’ve done two out of three. I’m probably just stressing the cuss out and it will get better.
Its hilarious and awesome. Here is an excerpt from her first post:
“Fucked at the Ballet is a blog thoroughly dedicated to all the things that are fucked up, seedy, weird, stupid, awful, sad, weird, funny, and awesome about the dance world and the bunheads that populate it. You don’t have to be a dancer to enjoy FATB, but it is suggested that:
You have seen, loved, and hated Centerstage, Step Up, or You Got Served and thought it was so bad it was good again.
At some point in your life you wanted to be a ballet dancer, took class, and then thought, “Aw, fuck it.”
At some point in your life you wanted to be a ballet dancer, took class, kept going, and it resulted in a half-assed dance career that has perpetually left you behind on your rent.
You’ve at least considered an eating disorder with the encouragement of a dance teacher, your bathroom scale, or the size four dress you bought as “incentive.”
Your introduction to male anatomy (or your homosexuality) was the time your Mom dragged you to a performance of The Nutcracker.