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I seriously hate my job–however I need it.  Because of “money” and “health “insurance” and all those other things people seem to think you need in order to “make it.”

But you see, I loath my job.  I can’t stand to look at it.  I don’t want to be around it.  I can stand myself when I’m around it.

But, I need it. What will I do without it?  Can i really do any better? I must be desperate. I must’ve settled.  And now, what am I going to do?

I mean, really, according to Oprah and the Smart asses who write for The Chicago Reader, I’m already washed up.  Because I’m 26.  And I don’t run a restaurant that won a Michelin Star or own the intellectual rights to a movie I’m currently in the process of producing/writing/directing/acting in.

I’m not sure there’s any reason to keep trying. Honestly, shouldn’t I be famous by now?

Sad day.

My friend Dan’s cat, Sammy, is, in the most polite terms, a bit of a hellion. To illustrate this let me Sometimes, because it’s funny for someone slightly sadistic like me to make a grown man sound like the theoretical cat voices on I can has cheeseburger.com, I ask Dan to imitate Sammy.

Today I asked him, “Dan, what would Sammy say if she met George Bush?”

Dan: Oh, to GWB? She’d be like, “ohai! you a fuckface! i no lieks you!” Then George would reach to shake her paw, and Sammycat would bitchslap him and the secret service would try to tackle her, but she’d be too quick and get away so they’d catch Danny and send him to Guantanamo Bay.

Romeo had Juliet.

Sonny had Cher.

Gay men have Celine Dion.

I need a muse.

Please fill out the below application:

1. Name

2, Social Security #

3. List relevant experience in the field of standing still for two or more hours while I gaze at your form and ponder it’s inherit beauty:

4. List any past crimes that may or may not have been crimes of passion, lust or vengeance:

5. Please tell me what you adore about me, like most artistic people I have tragically low self esteem and need constant reassurance from everyone that is close to me:

6. Are you willing to grow your hair very long (I am told many muses have long hair):

Please send all resumes and cover letters to girlwithoutashootingstar@gmail.com.

Serious inquiries only.

I’ve taken to drinking Sangiovese and eating cheese made in the Italian alps over sun-dried tomatoes and crostini in an effort to properly evoke and italian “ambiance.”

Bella is my name right now. But I’m the only one who refers to myself as such.

I’ve planned out my itinerary, the airline I want to take (Air Italia), as well as perfectly envisioned myself in a full-skirted dress with buttons ascending down the front straight out of a Rosselini movie. I’m half way there.

In my mind, anyway.

Lately I’ve found myself feverishly entering every single New Yorker caption contest that I can.

This is what my dreams have come to.

At the botanical gardens, under the creamy lotuses, pink roses and aromatic blue bells lies a carefully detailed description of each prized flower’s specific aesthetic and practical contributions to our natural world. Plus, their name, in Latin.

Underneath the faded green spruce trees, that pop up every now and again, awkwardly mingled with short patches of vibrant reds and violets, reads a sign that says simply this: “Required Plant.”

What it means, I don’t know, but I think if there ever was a time to consider a career in plant therapy, it would be now.

I’m going to Italy in the fall via air Italia!

Hopefully, lots of eager Italian men will say beautiful things to me in a language that I cannot understand.