Stephanie Georgopulos

While my days as an angst-ridden, jobless youth are long gone, the emails I sent during that time are still alive and well in the depths of my outbox. There is nothing quite as painful as finding evidence of what a tool you were when applying for jobs as a recent college graduate. Here are ten examples of why it took me six months to get hired.

I don’t watch television all that much, but every so often I’ll sit down and commit to “vegging out.” And when that happens, I find myself consistently overwhelmed and disappointed – as our options have grown, the value to be derived from watching cable television has withered into nonexistence. Cable television has destroyed the sitcom. 

4. Getting booted from the Internet and having to start a download from scratch 5. Searching for my name, “Stephanie,” and downloading every search result (they were all pretty bad; save for “Hey Stephanie!” by Gob and “Stephanie Says” by Velvet Underground) 6. Downloading corrupted files that were half song and half screeching, scrambled white noise

If I were a teenager or young adult back then, I would’ve been like, “Oh, TLC? Yeah, they totally invented the condom eye patch. Rad girls.” But I was a kid, so I was more like, “WTF? What’s that neon green thing covering that one’s eye and where do I get one? What’s a condom?!”

Musicians aren’t all the same, but the guys I’d fall for weren’t content to just be musicians. They wanted to be Gods. They had the looks and the talent; and they wanted the world in return. They expected it. They wanted to be idolized, dreamt about, cried over. One girl could never be enough.

Crying Eyes belong to the person who has just finished crying, is just about to cry, or is somewhere between the two. You feel exposed in their presence; they’re releasing the kind of raw, naked pain that’s only fit to be released into the center of a pillow. You can look at them or you can look away, it won’t change anything.

Leather in the summertime is enough to make me join PETA; it makes me want to pour red paint on every leather surface I encounter. I want to look the leather-owner straight in the eye afterward. My stare would say, “You ridiculous cow murderer. A fie on you (but should you offer, I would love to go on a car ride with you come winter. Your car is really sweet.)”

Maybe I didn’t feel it vibrate. This coat has abnormally large pockets. I’m just going to take the phone out for two seconds to see if it’s blinking. Really quickly. I don’t want Amanda to think I’m not listening to her… I totally am. Oh my god, it’s blinking! YES! Oh… oh. It’s an email.

Years before it was possible to spend hours at a time stalking exes and exes of exes on Facebook, there was just the straight up internet. Specifically, AOL – anyone who used Netscape or ICQ made me feel uneasy because… well, how simple was it to just use AOL?

What we had wasn’t epic, it wasn’t eternal – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Beds. Meals. Toothbrushes. We met each other’s friends, but not each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? Great, even.

My Self- Summary: I hate writing these things/I suck at describing myself/I am not at all good at this but here goes nothing… I’m an easygoing guy. I love a challenge/adventure/good movie. My friends say I’m ________. I’ll let you judge that for yourself, though. [Insert emoticon of choice.]

Gotta Dance – Stephanie takes up professional dancing. She busts her ass, struggles with practice, and thinks about quitting several times. When she hears that her group performance of ‘Motown Philly’ might land her an entire summer of dancing boot camp, she throws the performance on purpose and busts out some cray cray dance moves. All of her fellow dancers are like, “Homie, what?”

Then I freaked out. I remembered that, unlike Thanksgiving, unlike New Years, Easter is a religious holiday. I thought, “I can’t go to church.” I expressed this to my roommate as we were sharing wine. He said, “It’s an hour of your life, it’s an experience, won’t you just write about it?” And I said, “Yes, I will, you’re right.” But it was a lie, I couldn’t go, I would cancel on my parents the next day.

Once there was a time when breaking up with someone any other way besides having “the talk,” face-to-face, was totally abhorrent. If you told someone that you and your partner broke up via phone, it was like… disgusting. This was a time when yeah, breaking up actually was hard. Enter the age of apathy – aka now. All bets are off. No one is owed a decent break up these days.

I look White. My sister looks Spanish. My mom is Black. My dad is White. We never talked about these things. I never felt like I needed an explanation. At the first sign of summer, I wanted to fry in the sun and be tan like my sister. I remember my brother picking on me – he has a different dad and is darker, like my sister – and I told him that he wasn’t Black, like mom, just dirty.

Wake up, remember what happened the day before, sob. Get in the shower and stand so that you’re facing the water. This will create the illusion that you’re not crying. Blow your nose into your hands. Talk aloud; giving unsolicited responses to questions that no one is asking you because your “talk” was unsatisfying. Say what you need to say.

I will develop a “bedtime routine.” I will make a diligent effort to wash my face every night before bed. I will dab anti-wrinkle cream on my fingers and gently trace circles onto my aging skin, like I’ve watched my mother do. Once a week, I’ll apply a facial mask that will require fifteen minutes of doing something else until it dries; something noncommittal like fixing a cup of tea.

Often, “shitting where you eat” refers to a workplace hookup; an ill-advised soirée involving yourself and the company ink. However, I’d argue that this analogy is better suited to the inter-apartment hookup. After all, where does the majority of your shitting and eating go down? Don’t answer that.