I’m attempting to study for my LSAT’s. That obviously is NOT going well seeing how I’ve turned on Helen’s laptop only to type this blog entry. This is what happens after doing seven logical reasoning questions and becoming sick immediately after having found out I missed half of them. (Seriously, I had to run to the bathroom) I blame the coldness of this Border’s Café. I think the more “logical” explanation would be that I’m just plain not cut out for this. That just sucks.
I found myself wandering through the bargain books section – first through food, then through art, then downstairs through the best-sellers, and of course, my favorite section, the magazines. And I thought to myself, what am I doing? I have less than a few days to really decide, is this what I want to do and here I am, wandering aimlessly through the magazine section as if I had no care in the world. Common sense, and my practical side tell me, no, do not torture yourself in doing something you are so uncertain about. But my heart (damn that organ) is willing me to move forward. Into what? A life of hell and the reality that the only law school that will accept me is Whittier College? Serves me right for taking shit about it all this time. Fuck.
I have all these other passions. Food, architecture (obviously viewing it, not designing it), art, fashion, clothes, shoes, magazines, writing, prose and yet, I want to go to law school. I’ve gone this far, why don’t I just finish what I started? I took on two absolutely ridiculous majors because I was way too chicken to suck it all up and continue what I came to Berkeley for: The Haas School of Business. Every time business comes up my Dad snickers, “Dream down the drain”. Perhaps I still think about it so much because I feel like I’m disappointing my dad – I don’t even remember the last time I saw him proud of me. I think it was when I pitched a no-hitter for six innings or something. Then again, that is only accompanied by the look of utter disappointment on his face when I gave up the winning run a game later. I could never please him. This goes into my issue with men too. Maybe I shut them all out because I’m scared to disappoint them. I was watching a Sex and the City episode in which Carrie says, “Maybe the relationship you have with your father models all the relationships you’ll have with men”. Something like that. I’m fucked. For law school and my love life.
I go on too many tangents. I love art. I remember going to museums as a kid, fascinated by all the huge paintings. I remember the Met when I was visiting Cornell back in high school and how captivating it was just seeing all these amazing pieces in every wing of the museum. I remember the intrigue I felt writing my final paper in my History of Art class freshman year, analyzing William Blake. What if I majored in Art History? Had my own gallery one day? Bought and sold art? That would be the life.
I love food, god look at me. What if I went to culinary arts school? Became a chef? Or not even, a food critic. Travel the world documenting my tastes. Hopefully I wouldn’t do it Anthony Bourdain style in A Cook’s Tour because I will probably throw up for the first time since I was five watching a duck having a pipe shoved down this throat to make the perfect, plump, rich, delicious fois gras. No fucking thank you. But critiquing all the restaurants in lower Manhattan, Beverly Hills, Chicago, incredibly amazing.
And if I stuck it out, applied to Haas and get accepted, where would I be? Doing accounting right now for Accenture? Have scored a consulting internship at Bain? Or better yet, slave away into the depths of the night with Annie at her Century City Investment Banking firm? I could guarantee you one thing. My parents would be fucking proud. They’d have a banner across the front of our two-story, suburbia house with the words “MY DAUGHTER IS A SUCCESS” written in hot pink.
But alas, here I am, sitting in the freezing Borders café playing what if’s. My life is too much about those damnit. So I look at my choices.
1) Law School (shudder)
2) Masters in Journalism (fashion editor at Vogue, fashion editor at Vogue…)
3) Ph.D (I’m not a social worker! I’m going to be a SUPER social worker!)
4) Begging for money on Telegraph Ave.
Nooooo, I’ve lost it! I can never be a journalist. My writing moments come and go. But hell, I had fun for the past twenty minutes. Actually, I was distracted. Helen came back after having said she had trouble opening the bathroom door. That’s a future doctor for you.
I just want to be happy. And love what I do. Absolutely love my job. Can I just have that? And be able to support the way I want to live. When it comes down to it, I don’t need Porsche’s, Malibu beach houses, or daily dinners at the Four Seasons. I just need a little bit of encouragement, ambition, mixed in with a great deal of love, friendships, and unconditional support. That’ll make any of my four options incredibly enticing. Even begging for money on Telegraph.
I found myself wandering through the bargain books section – first through food, then through art, then downstairs through the best-sellers, and of course, my favorite section, the magazines. And I thought to myself, what am I doing? I have less than a few days to really decide, is this what I want to do and here I am, wandering aimlessly through the magazine section as if I had no care in the world. Common sense, and my practical side tell me, no, do not torture yourself in doing something you are so uncertain about. But my heart (damn that organ) is willing me to move forward. Into what? A life of hell and the reality that the only law school that will accept me is Whittier College? Serves me right for taking shit about it all this time. Fuck.
I have all these other passions. Food, architecture (obviously viewing it, not designing it), art, fashion, clothes, shoes, magazines, writing, prose and yet, I want to go to law school. I’ve gone this far, why don’t I just finish what I started? I took on two absolutely ridiculous majors because I was way too chicken to suck it all up and continue what I came to Berkeley for: The Haas School of Business. Every time business comes up my Dad snickers, “Dream down the drain”. Perhaps I still think about it so much because I feel like I’m disappointing my dad – I don’t even remember the last time I saw him proud of me. I think it was when I pitched a no-hitter for six innings or something. Then again, that is only accompanied by the look of utter disappointment on his face when I gave up the winning run a game later. I could never please him. This goes into my issue with men too. Maybe I shut them all out because I’m scared to disappoint them. I was watching a Sex and the City episode in which Carrie says, “Maybe the relationship you have with your father models all the relationships you’ll have with men”. Something like that. I’m fucked. For law school and my love life.
I go on too many tangents. I love art. I remember going to museums as a kid, fascinated by all the huge paintings. I remember the Met when I was visiting Cornell back in high school and how captivating it was just seeing all these amazing pieces in every wing of the museum. I remember the intrigue I felt writing my final paper in my History of Art class freshman year, analyzing William Blake. What if I majored in Art History? Had my own gallery one day? Bought and sold art? That would be the life.
I love food, god look at me. What if I went to culinary arts school? Became a chef? Or not even, a food critic. Travel the world documenting my tastes. Hopefully I wouldn’t do it Anthony Bourdain style in A Cook’s Tour because I will probably throw up for the first time since I was five watching a duck having a pipe shoved down this throat to make the perfect, plump, rich, delicious fois gras. No fucking thank you. But critiquing all the restaurants in lower Manhattan, Beverly Hills, Chicago, incredibly amazing.
And if I stuck it out, applied to Haas and get accepted, where would I be? Doing accounting right now for Accenture? Have scored a consulting internship at Bain? Or better yet, slave away into the depths of the night with Annie at her Century City Investment Banking firm? I could guarantee you one thing. My parents would be fucking proud. They’d have a banner across the front of our two-story, suburbia house with the words “MY DAUGHTER IS A SUCCESS” written in hot pink.
But alas, here I am, sitting in the freezing Borders café playing what if’s. My life is too much about those damnit. So I look at my choices.
1) Law School (shudder)
2) Masters in Journalism (fashion editor at Vogue, fashion editor at Vogue…)
3) Ph.D (I’m not a social worker! I’m going to be a SUPER social worker!)
4) Begging for money on Telegraph Ave.
Nooooo, I’ve lost it! I can never be a journalist. My writing moments come and go. But hell, I had fun for the past twenty minutes. Actually, I was distracted. Helen came back after having said she had trouble opening the bathroom door. That’s a future doctor for you.
I just want to be happy. And love what I do. Absolutely love my job. Can I just have that? And be able to support the way I want to live. When it comes down to it, I don’t need Porsche’s, Malibu beach houses, or daily dinners at the Four Seasons. I just need a little bit of encouragement, ambition, mixed in with a great deal of love, friendships, and unconditional support. That’ll make any of my four options incredibly enticing. Even begging for money on Telegraph.
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