Tag Archives: writing

Bye Old Blog!!!

Choose Our Own Adventure has moved!

We’ve moved to Choose Our Own Adventure dot com!

I realize it’s the same domain name as before.

But it’s different.

Kind of.

Trust me.

This blog will remain at chooseourownadventure.wordpress.com.

Love AND Luggage Part 2 coming right up on the new blog!

See you on the other side!



Luggage. (jenn)

I am so thankful for Ryan.

We know I don’t slow him down.

We know I am not convenience over connection.

We know he is not settling for something he doesn’t really want.

It still stings, to read these words copy and pasted below from a Hawaii newspaper–but only for a minute, like that bee on your bicycle seat that time when you were five and in your bathing suit, about to peddle to the pool. It stings because I know the truth is I have been luggage.

But I’m not allergic. There’s no swelling. And now the bee is DEAD.

Death by ghetto booty.

It’s true.

Amsterdam was both the saddest and most beautiful time of my entire life.

It had nothing to do with drugs–the ingested, smoked, injected kind.

It had to do with my own chemicals–a slow tide, how they slip past a horizon I cannot see–leaving me somewhere barren. And grey. (Are barren places any other color?) Later, back from wherever they receded, I go back to floating, belly up, watching the sky and hoping it will stay bright and endless.

P.S. My sister sent me this link today. It almost made me want to come out of the melancholy closet, to wear my dark black nihilist ribbon, to reclaim “clinical” as a hip power-word, that I can say openly in conversation, just like how gay people can say the n-word.

See. Sad makes me FUNNY.

Anyway, tomorrow we’re waking up at 5 am to deliver flowers to people who actually GET flowers on Valentine’s Day. It’s going to be the best V-day ever!!! Expect us to read everyone’s little flower cards and use them as blog ammo.

And now… enjoy this article about how I am LUGGAGE from the Hawaii Tribune-Herald.

Is it love or luggage?

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

by Gloria Baraquio

My best friends are visiting from Honolulu this week, and we’ve been having sleepovers every night they’ve been here. We feel like teenagers again — setting up our sleeping bags, staying up late, watching movies, playing games, eating junk food, and of course, catching up on all sorts of conversation.

Our main topic of discussion has been about relationships — current loves, past loves, ones that involve us, and ones that involve our good friends. We feel like we’ve lost some of our friends to partners they’ve chosen for themselves or attracted into their lives … and not necessarily for the better. That saddens us. It’s like instead of dating someone they like or enjoy, they seem to pick someone who seems to work for them. It seems like they’ve chosen practicality over passion, convenience over connection. How do I say this?… They’ve settled for something they don’t really want.

And so the question on the table this week has been: Is it love, or is it luggage?

[Anonymous Friend] puts it very eloquently when he speaks about our best friend’s girlfriend “She comes with two wheels and a handle. She holds his personal items.”

It’s not that we don’t like the girl. She really is cool. It’s just that she doesn’t seem to enhance our friend who we know and love. In fact, she kinda slows him down. He’s always checking to see if she’s OK or not. She often seems upset or irritable around the group, and she doesn’t talk to any of us. The two of them don’t kiss much or show much affection. He kinda seems stressed out by her. Luggage, that’s what we call it.

This past week, we met the boyfriend of one of our girlfriends. He was nice and not bad looking. He didn’t talk much, and the two of them barely interacted. Supposedly, he’s great in the kitchen and in the yard. As we all hung out, we felt like he just wanted to go home, but our girl was enjoying herself with us. But they soon left because there was nothing comfortable about it. Luggage, we call it.

We don’t mean to be harsh. I mean, I guess luggage doesn’t have to be a bad thing, someone carrying your baggage around for you. But I’m thinking, why do you gotta have someone else carry your stuff? Why can’t you deal with your own stuff and just get rid of them yourself?

I can be empathetic. Part of me feels like sometimes we just need luggage. We’re not ready to let go of our stuff. We don’t even know how to go through all of it, how to unpack it, how to organize it. And so it’s nice to have someone carry it for us while we free our hands to do other things in life, like our art or our craft or whatever it is that we need to do, even if it’s just buying us time to avoid the issues that are too dark and dirty for us to face.

[We] spent quite a bit of time talking about who we think belongs together, who we think will last, who we think will break up. But the reality is that it doesn’t matter what we think. People are gonna do whatever they’re gonna do, and we can never really know what’s going on between two people, let alone what’s going on inside one person’s head. How many of my boyfriends did my friends and family disapprove of?

I don’t care how much we think we know someone. People grow and change and move and morph.

They may no longer be who we thought they were or what we want them to be. And maybe they really are happy even if it doesn’t look like it. We don’t know what’s really going on.

And bottom line, that person in their life is serving some sort of purpose for them in this stage of development, somehow.

As friends, we just want the best for our other friends and their personal growth.

But then I thought about it, and I suggested to the group, “Maybe love isn’t the goal in every relationship. And sometimes, maybe love is just about finding other baggage that matches your own.” Don’t we all love matching luggage?

We laughed and somewhat agreed. Everyone has baggage, stuff, issues, and pasts, but just deal with them and keep it light. In the end, I think the three of us decided you only have room for one carry-on, so leave the rest behind.

One month in the life of a Craigslist Addict (jenn)

I realize it’s “so 2003” to be newly obsessed with Craigslist, but I since spent the last few years in Bulgaria, where there is no Craigslist (gasp!), it’s really become something I am quite taken by. Yes, I just said taken by. It’s a shame, since without the “in Bulgaria” part, my apartment would have been taken faster than you can say “Post Communist Hell.”

Two bedroom flat, two gorgeous balconies with wide mountain views, large kitchen and dining room, mold-free bathroom with flushing toilet, fully furnished and only a block away from outdoor markets, town center, town church, town park, town bank, etc.–$100/month.

Ryan and I pay 500 times that for an apartment 1/1000th as small in our new Seattle hood. (Math—not my forte.) But that’s the price you pay to live in a place you actually want to live, with such amenities as a ten-story library, Thai restaurants, and no Bulgaria. Resulting from the exorbitant rent we pay for the donut-shaped hobbit hole where we currently reside in the Central District, I have been fanatically utilizing the “Free” section of Craigslist in furnishing our new abode. Yes, I just said resulting from.

The first thing I learned about free stuff on Craigslist is that that everything besides no-legged tables goes fast. Much like a trader or someone who has to do things fast, I have had to be on the computer e-mailing and calling people as soon as their post came up. Otherwise, another Seattlite with faster fingers would be getting my new used futon.

My first successful acquisition was a large entertainment center and desk, all from an older man living in a mountain neighborhood where there were no non-white people on the street corners. Actually, there were no people. And in fact, no corners. We drove on a meandering road up the ridge, each house at the end of a long private driveway.

I wondered to whom you might give a dollar to fetch your runaway bitch mutt, as Ryan does with our neighborhood crackheads.

No matter.

While the furniture was kindly disassembled for convenient transport, it took me a month surrounded by an assortment of screws, nails, and oddly shaped wood pieces to get the entertainment center up and ready to entertain. Re-building the desk, however, is requiring skills that my Ivy League BA in Psychology has not afforded me. However, from the various pieces of nicely-finished black wood piled in our bedroom/office section of the donut, I think it will be a really nice desk once it is assembled, perhaps by someone STEVE WHITE who may perhaps be more handy with a screwdriver, of the tool variety.

In our new home, Ryan and I were sleeping side-by-side in our REI sleeping pods, which was fine and gave us a perpetual sense of adventure and transience, at least at bedtime. However, when I saw “Clean Down Comforter” on Craigslist one day, I knew I couldn’t say no. Who says no to a clean free down comforter? Not me friends, not me. We drove to a hip chick’s apartment, and when she told me her name, I knew she had to be Bulgarian, as there are only 3.5 names in Bulgaria for women. She was indeed from Bulgaria, and had learned English from Peace Corps Volunteers, so we sat around and reminisced about the great Bulgarian… yogurt. And beans. As we were about to leave she said, “Hey, do you guys want all my pots and pans too?” And this is how we came to possess the nicest pots and pans I have ever owned.

I knew I spent the best years of my twenties in Bulgaria for a reason.

Things really started to pick up when I managed to find us a brand-new looking Ikea kitchen table! We drove deep into Tacoma to pick it up, which made the owner of the table laugh at us, as if to say–you do realize the money you spent on gas cost more than this Ikea table. But to make it worth our while, and because Ryan is extremely affable and I make sure to tell everyone we don’t have anything because I was in THE PEACE CORPS, this charitable young couple decided to help us build our dreams using all the things they weren’t taking with them on their move to San Francisco. This included lamps, a bookshelf, a fancy coffee maker whose various contraptions we have not yet figured out nor have any intent to, and most importantly, approximately 5 lbs of raw spaghetti, a near-gallon of olive oil, and various canned goods, including Tomato Soup and garbanzo beans. From their food products, I extrapolated that in a parallel existence we all would have made great friends. We drove away from Tacoma ecstatic, feeling like we had won the lottery, but instead of a million dollars, we had a lifetime supply of spaghetti.

Some people have said, “Jenn, why don’t you use the time you spend on Craigslist Free looking for a job under Craigslist Jobs.” And I say, “That’s silly. Why would I want a job when I can have a free weight lifting bench?”

We’ve also acquired a comfy free futon and futon frame, small desk, decorative bureau, cozy orange-corduroy loveseat, TV, lamps galore, a printer, and free tickets to a Kermet Apio show!

Still on the free wish list are: dishes, a basketball, haircuts, bikes, a SLR, one or two MacBook Airs, and a movie option for my yet-unwritten first novel.

Since we did need some extra cash to supplement our non-income, we decided to sell our iPhone on Craigslist. In less than ten minutes I had about twenty offers, but oddly enough, the best offer was from someone willing to pay more than it was worth at a store. We couldn’t decide if he was really dumb or we were, but he came and paid us a stack of cash and sped off. Feeling the whole exchange was strange, I joked about how he was probably Vietnamese mafia and didn’t want to go to a store to just buy an iPhone like a normal non-mafia person. Later I Googled his name, and perhaps he has a very common Vietnamese name, such as the Vietnamese version of “Chris Wong” but his name was also the name of a Seattle Vietnamese drug ring leader!

I’m glad our iPhone may have found a safe home to be used for heroin smuggling.

I really do hate it when I am right. Especially when it involves Vietnamese Tony Soprano knowing where you live. And by you, I mean ME.

In a country where people can afford to put televisions, computers, couches, and the occasional unwanted second daughter out on the curb, I love this country’s enthusiasm for trying to re-home furnishings—all for nothing. It’s so un-American and so American all at the same time. Wow.

Some people read The Secret and put their dreams out to the universe, hoping to attract a Ferrari through the strong magnetic power of Ferrari-lust. I put my dreams out to Craigslist, hoping to get something for nothing, again and again.

funny looking [ryan]


.                                        wards,
sometimes I float up

in the middle of a conversation

and watch myself being watched

by myself;

listening to my

self listening;


my self from

my self in order

to be closer to

my non-self;

i am nodding, saying uh-huh,

i am not there at


i hear other voices, other dooms,

i am talking while talking;

another voice tries to talk over me in my head

i can hear the narrator from my biographical documentary

being taped years from now

speaking about me like I’m dead

because I am.

and then suddenly

whatever I was saying

and to whomever I was saying it-

all of it seems so

very small and unnecessary;

funny looking.

I Hate Roaches. (jenn)

Dedicated to all my Hawaii peeps and our PTRD (Post Traumatic Roach Disorder) stories.

If you have a good story, comment!

I hate it when you wake up in the middle of the night to pee, and after sitting, you hear a roach scuffling along the inside of the toilet bowl.

I hate it when you can’t pee in the middle of the night for the rest of your life.

I hate it when you pour a glass of orange juice in the morning and take a sip, only to notice the floating roach exoskeleton one sip to late.

I hate that.

I hate it when you come home from work and a flying roach dives down your bra for no obvious reason while you are trying to take off your shoes.

I hate it when you are trying to shake said roach out of your shirt, but instead you accidentally squash it against your chest.

Shit. That’s the worst.

I hate it when you are trying to put on your shoes and you feel a roach crawl between your toes and you throw off your shoe and scream like a little castrated man named Earl.

I hate it when there are roaches on the front seat of your car. They can’t even drive.

I hate it when people say, “They’re more scared of you than you are of them,” because that’s bullshit.

I hate it when there are little dead baby cockroach carcasses in your toothbrush.

I hate it when they are alive.

I hate that my whole life I thought cockroaches was spelled cockaroaches.

I hate it when you open up your medicine cabinet to take your Prozac and there’s a roach sitting on it and it says, BOO!

I hate it when you spray a phatty momma roach with Raid, and suddenly she lays a gooey roach egg on your kitchen counter on her frantic crawl towards the light.

I hate it when you go to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get some guacamole and there’s three huge roaches having a pow wow on your floor.

I hate it when roaches have names, like Sanchez and Bob, and wear hats.

I hate it when you’re in bed at night and hear them running along your wall, especially because of that time when you woke up and one was in your hair. How fucked up is that? 100 points.

I hate it when you’re camping at Bellow’s and you can’t sleep because you’re scared of the Blair Roach.

I hate it when roaches exist.

I hate it when you are trying to throw away a dead roach in a paper towel, and suddenly it comes back to life, only long enough to slice your finger with its razor sharp roach leg and quote Dylan Thomas.

I hate it when you find a roach leg floating in your saimin.

I hate it when you eat it, confusing it with a food that resembles roach legs.

I hate it when roaches take the shape of my mother in my nightmares, wearing matching aprons, and all shaking their hairy roach leg/finger, saying I’ll never amount to anything.

I hate it when your baby says, “Hey look mom at my new toy,” but it’s not a toy, it’s a roach.

I hate it when you have to throw away the overflowing roach motel and you look inside and know FOR SURE that there can’t be a god, because why would god make roaches?



Lampshade, spigot, and the always challenging egg carton. (jenn)


For those of you who are inexplicably not on Myspace, this is my latest About Me:

Last New Year’s I was in Bulgaria, in bed by 10, force-spooning Matilda, both of us as close as possible to the space heater without risking accidental immolation, both of us drifting, waking, drifting to fireworks shaking intermittent street and sky corners.

It was me and Mati versus Bulgaria.

I missed Ryan.

Missed is such a little word.

America was my foreign country.

This New Year’s I was in Amsterdam, with Ryan, two bodies compacted by a mass of millions in Dam Square’s midnight revelry. It was a one-night war, complete with fires, bombs, hookers, and the innocent deaths of women and children.

It was every drunk man versus himself.

I held onto Ryan for dear life. He held me back.

We’d survived a year. A Myspace love story turned exciting social experiment turned normal/dysfunctional relationship turned dream turned blog turned best experience of my life.

You can hate me. Ryan gave me all of 07 to find myself. I could read, write, wander and sleep all day. He loved my bitch as much as I love my bitch. He let us live in an orange, blue, green, red walled wonderland. He ate my veggie dishes and said they were “surprisingly edible.” He showed me my favorite movies I’d never seen. He let me binge shop on Amazon, filling our walls with all the words we’d get to. He took my friends out for phenomenal wine-drenched meals. He let me out of my one woman Panopticon. In 07, Ryan brought me back from Bulgaria, took me to Hawaii, Chicago, Boston, Maryland, Milwaukee, Montana, Idaho, Seattle, all roads in between. And then the place of all places: Amsterdam.

We are on our way, we are still going, we are there.

He showed me a better way of living.

Less berate self, more destroy all concept of self.

Less wallow, more woo hoo.

Less less, more more.

He was patient with me. Last year I became an Olympic-level javelin throwerist of raw emotion. The world was my Target logo. I contained myself in Bulgaria, for two and a half years building my arsenal of injustices, of things I Couldn’t Change, of terrible voices in my head, all of which spoke Bulgarian. I misinterpreted. I needed my own translator. I came back home, a weapon of mass self-destruction. I hurled everything back at the world, which was me, which was everyone, which was Ryan holding my hands and saying: shh.

I don’t do shh.

I know, that’s why I’m telling you to shh.

Today, January 22, 2008, I live in Seattle, and by live, I mean I have paused here, a parenthesis in time, a place between places.

Today, I’ve been thinking about how we are always looking back, judging ourselves using a biased scoring system that offers points for where you are now in comparison to where you’ve been, judging you now against the hypothetical you tomorrow, where you’ve perhaps reached, or surpassed, your potential.

But what is potential, and who gave it to me? Who set the bar? Who keeps raising it? Is it my own bastard left hand? Is it my parents? Friends and their tacit employment that says, I may hate my life but at least I have a fantastic benefits package! What’s fantastic?

Why does everyone think carpe diem was so last year?

I don’t know many people living up to their potential.

Did 50 cent surpass his?

I don’t know him.

Will we know when we are there? Frolicking in Fulfilled Potential Land?

Ryan says I am an amazing person waiting to happen.

Who’s in front of me?

Why she taking so long?

Ryan says we should always dance in line. Then we’re not waiting, we’re dancing.

I’ll be so caught up in my running-man-cabbage-patch combo that all lines will disappear. Lines I’ve drawn between myself and everyone else, a chalk outline against the sky. I’m alive, I’m alive, watch me as I do the hustle.

Most people I know are heading toward their potential, as though it is at the end of a one way staircase you have to climb while rolling a well-greased boulder that’s been chiseled into the shape of a rhombus. Every year, you flip yourself over to your side, put in your time, pay your dues, earn your equity, get promoted to slave sr., and then get excited when you’re named slave sr. of the month.

I just have a short attention span, sometimes I

All I really want to do with my life is write about it.

I used to pencil Writer of self-absorbed non-fiction in the form of freely associated ramblings into the career multiple choice every few years. Now I’m engraving it.

So here I am in 08, standing on the sidelines of my life–I see everything, I hear Ryan singing Janet Jackson into Sting into Sade. It’s Saturday morning in Seattle, I’m warmed up, there are fleece vest wearers playing frisbee at the park across the street, all wearing some combination of the colors earth green, grey, black and khaki. One city, so many shades of khaki. We’ve decide they’re gay, a gay Saturday morning Seattle Frisbee club. Ryan’s been standing at the bay window with his balls out to see if anyone looks and reveals themselves as gay.

This is Saturday morning.

Some days I play, sliding into home naked on a yellow-yellow slip and slide, traveling with the ball and getting away with it, leaping off the high board and busting out inanimate object poses all the way down.



and the always challenging egg carton.

I am not here to race.

Still, I run and I am every run: I am 20 listening to Dar Williams, Tori Amos, Dave Matthews Band, Tom Petty on my mixed tape learning to jog along the Charles River; I am 21 along Mission Bay, Michelle Branch in my Discman, past mast after mast lining the shore, a row of stiff necks, leaning with the wind; I am 24 running with Dr. Boyfriend, looping Hawaii Kai Drive the night before I leave our life and begin mine; I am 26, on hour three of marathon training, chasing horse carts in the early morning white of Bulgaria to Smack my, passing them with Bitch up; I am 27, chasing Mati in empty Dupnitza hills, iPod shuffling drum and bass, Outkast, Natasha Bedingfield, Britney, Nelly Furtado, N.E.R.D; I am 28, along the Schuylkill, sprinting into the sun down wonder of my new life, Ryan. Ryan, waiting for me at the art museum to hand me water, an apple. To take me home.

Every step I have taken, I have taken.

Different shoes, same legs.

I write about my life because it is what I know most and least.

Today, I am beading my memories, gently dropping my little yesterdays onto an invisible string of identity, random patterns: red I am in love, black I am down, blue I can’t, white I am new, lavender I am dream, red, red, red, lavender, black, blueblackblue, white. I’ll wear this everywhere–a friendship bracelet, a lucky charm, something beautiful to pass onto myself when I’m gone.

This year, I will write about what I love.

And I love.

I love homemade meals with friends, wine, laughter, silliness over politics, books over bestsellers, tofu over non-tofu, dancing to 80s music over sitting to 80s music, bros before hos, my bitch over your bitch, climbing over hiking, Myspace over Facebook, outdoor markets over supermarkets, cluttered used book stores over over-lit chains that charge for wireless with books on weight loss and financial planning at the front door.

I love coffeshop marathons. Soy cappuccino with cinnamon is my new soy chai.

I love new old friends, old new friends, people I have everything or nothing in common with. I love waking Ryan up in the middle of the night with my hysterical laugher, as I read Steve Martin or Woody Allen or Ryan Matsumoto. I love laughter over the universal hand gesture for I’m going to vomit.

I love believing in other people. I love believing in other people believing in me.

I love Ryan asking if I want to watch a movie at night and then falling asleep five minutes in. Or, on a good night, six minutes.

I love sake bombs.

I love when I’m mixing veggie burgers from scratch as Ryan’s ground cow lump sizzles and bleeds, and he looks over my shoulder at my wholesome goodness and says, “God, that looks disgusting.”

I love that my sister lets me use her as material for my demented humor.

I love greeting cards as short stories.

I love the art of my friends.

I love the patient, bottomless sustenance from my parents.

I love thumb-holes in long-sleeved thermal shirts.

I love I love lists.

I love having more favorites than I could ever list.

I love I am chains.

I am nobody. I am ambien. I am on both sides of the mirror. I am through the looking glass. I am third person plural. I am Saturn returning. I am mantra. I am mantra. I am palm, I am reader. I am mispronounced French word. I am mise en place. I am standing on the edge of the sky. I am tag, I am it. I am rubber, I am glue. I am countdown. I am channeling. I am cable access. I am Lifetime movie. I am remote. I am control.

I am switching the channel.

I am spin cycle.

I am a circle.

I am holding myself together.


Some park by our house, Seattle

Time: 11:40pm
Setting: In car outside public library, stealing free wireless
Mood: Brr

When someone says: you’re slacking on the blog, I like to take it as a compliment, as in, wow Hee, you are so gifted and dynamic, I wish you would blog every day!

Yes! Then I shall try to blog every day!

Then another someone might say: shiiit girl, I’m totally behind, your shit is just so fucking heavy, you and Ryan, it’s not like I can skim your words.

Yes! Then I shall not blog every day!

Occasionally a “friend” calls to catch up, and hypothetically asks about my Christmas. After I answer, said person says in shocked manner: you went to Amsterdam?!! Dumbass, I respond, don’t you read my motherfucking blog? I may feel very insulted because I think all my friends ought to be as interested in me as I am. If you had a blog, I could say, I would read it religiously. In other words, if you had a blog, it’d be really boring, and that’s why you don’t have one. Your comeback might be: at least I can afford a sailboat with my oodles of moola, and I might say, who the fuck says oodles of moola? You, friend, might say I would never say that–you, Hee, make other people sound like douchebags in your blog to make yourself look smarter, and I might ask, did it work?, and you’d concede: yes, good game.

I haven’t not been blogging because I resolved to never use the a-word again in my last entry, but because I’ve been trying to write pieces that will hopefully one day end up in MONEY, since all of you freeloaders read me for free. I didn’t get the ‘zines with homeless teens job at the YWCA–THANKS FOR NOTHING HARVARD–and every time I open the Sunday classifieds or browse Craigslist for hours, nothing sends my heart even slightly a’twitter. This world of employment is just not for me! I need to freelance. It’s the only job that has the word free in it, which subliminally is very satisfying. Right now, our life is perfect. Ryan and I wake up, write pieces that have cute orange end buoys bobbing on the horizon, scribble down parts of Big Pieces, compose absurd and brilliant songs, eat in, use Mati as an excuse to go to Marymoor dog park and laugh at dogs and their people, walk down to Chinatown, drive to the Seattle café of the day, park outside the library and use the free wireless, read our brains out, make fucking awesome videos using the simplest Mac software imaginable, and try to see how little money we can spend going out while having the best time ever.

Sample weekend, last:

Thursday Night—Chinatown karaoke with Big Will—definitely best time ever, but money was spent.


Friday Night—Ryan falls asleep at 7, mid-Breach, both of us sideways on our free loveseat made for one normal sized person. I spend the rest of the night making love to my computer screen, and by making love, I mean writing. A cheap date if I ever saw one!

Saturday Night—Dancing to 80s classics such as “Beat It,” with Ellen and Jordan at Buddha Bar. Ryan does a brilliant impromptu duet dance with an equally insane white woman of advanced age who was either a mom with a mission, the wife of a biker-man, or my fourth grade teacher. It was hard to pinpoint her personality based on her grand jetés. She grabs Ryan’s balls and gives him the come hither finger all night. Ryan tries to pretend he’s with me so she’ll stop groping him. Nice try, stranger.

Best time ever!!!

Sunday NightComedy Underground to watch Paul Ogata. We pretend we’re his crew and since we’re Asian the scenario is plausible and this gets us in for free. I laugh so hard I snort brain matter out of my nose. Best time ever!!!

In conclusion, we had three best nights ever for the price of one.

Reduce, Reuse, Reblog

I wrote the following piece in my old website/blog, but since way more new people read this blog, especially now that Ryan’s ass is heavily featured, I am re-posting it, mainly in the hopes that someone will send it to someone who will send it to someone, and it will become chain blog-mail. In a week it will come back to me, telling me I have to send it to 7 people in order to have my wish come true, which was to have this letter turn into chain mail, therefore it will have already become true, thus breaking the wish-cycle of chain letters. And somewhere out there will be that special person who opens me, a one-of-a-kind unbirthday present for all occasions, only to say: oh, she’s perfect! Here’s $100,000 a year to do just that!

P.S. I can be reached at: jennmeleana@mac.com

Cover Letter, My Ideal Job

Dear Future Employer:

(Which ideally would be me.)

Dear Self:

If I were to take all my experiences and mesh them into one occupational position–it would be to create an alternative treatment center for emotionally-disturbed private school-educated orphans of gypsy descent. There, I would teach them avant-garde writing in the form of stick figure portraiture, Surrealist photography in the form of aggressive napping, cardio kickboxing, imperfect veganism, and proper contraception implementation. I would treat them from their addictions to god, to family obligation, to morality as a washboard for our animal instincts, to guilt/blame, to ego, to refined sugars, to Myspace. This center would be in a former Communist nation where there would still only be two types of cheese–yellow and white. I’d recycle my diploma into toilet paper. Ivy League 2-ply.

The lesson of the day: degrees are for assholes.

Each morning, we would climb the metaphorical walls of our flimsy defenses before settling into our line-less Moleskins. Blank pages–we could go any way. After loosening the figure 8 knots of our old convictions, we’d rappel into philosophical caves, rooms of our own, walls padded with the insulation of our old bullshit, writing character sketches for our self of the day. At recess, we’d have a pep rally, cheering on our own genius ideas.

“G-E-N-I-U-S! Gooooo Genius!!!”

At lunch, we’d photograph trees, bury first drafts in self-destructing time capsules, invent ten new ways to eat pumpkin, stuff kaleidoscopes with fortune cookie fortunes, laugh at the distortions, the possibilities, laugh at our pasts which we’ve pulled from our mind like a loose shirt thread and re-woven into a quilt large enough to cover our cold feet. At night, we’d reclaim constellations, snip every imaginary line connecting memories to fear, expectation to fear, preservation to fear. Cassiopeia into The Persistence of Memory. The Big Dipper into Guernica. We’d praise the sky as a figment of our gorgeous imaginations. We’d be as endless as we wanted to be. We’d take our fears, write them on gold origami paper, folding each into 1,000 cranes, into one crane in the shape of a kite, and fly our fears past the point of control, and let them go, let them all go.

And then we’d be free for the first time in our lives.


I mean, c’mon already. I am awesome. Hire me.

My most productive hours are between the hours of 12 and 4 am, I need really good health insurance, a company car or bike would be SO COOL, can my dog come?, I cook a mean pumpkin bread, do I really have to be present physically every day?, I think having the option to work from a park or cafe or hey, my living room– would be fantastic, and gym membership as a corporate benefit, hey, I’ll take it!


In the meantime, enjoy our latest photos from the lovely Pacific Northwest!