“The euro has also been underpinned by recent signs that the US government may be relaxing its traditional commitment to a strong dollar in an effort at kick-starting an export-led recovery. The eurozone's higher interest rate - at 2.5% compared with just 1.25% in the US - has given investors an added incentive to hold euros rather than dollars.”
Could it be? For once in my life I am on the right side of “an” economy? This means that for ever E10 I earn, that is at least $11.80 or something. Okay, so my math skills are not (and never have been) completely accurate—but still. Now, I just need to find a job.
So, in other exciting news, Breakfast Club Principal director of Film Studies Program is now my advisor! That’s right, I’ve kicked academo-man to the curb! Now I just need to call him and say so. . . And, of course, write my thesis. And, get a job, and move, and all of that. But all of “that” is made all the more exciting by the whole .80+ money I will be making if I ever do get a job! Somehow, that makes it all easier.
Something I noticed today: at the approximate age of 26-27 one can notice where one will age. For me—the diaganol lines that run downward from my nose. When I smile, they are cavernous creases. Once dimple-like, now total Botox-ready pouches. Yes, it’s shallow/vain/depressing, but for chrissake! Why can’t a girl get at least to 36 before this happens? Do we, a mere shade before 30, get any breaks? I’m not old dammit! I don’t look old, and I certainly don’t feel old! And, of course, I am NOT old, but still. My flatmate just bought FHM’s 100 Hottest Women issue. I hate stuff like that. I don’t care what men say, it’s annoying and irritating and fantasy, and if men had to look at the buff abs of, oh I don’t know INSERT MODEL NAME HERE, they would feel much different when they were simply trying to make dinner. And, I will reiterate, I am not old. Just annoyed. For once, I want to walk into a convenience store, buy my sugar-sugar-sugar-packed beverage/snack followed by salty-snack and not have to stare at the air-brushed boobies or behind of Next New Thing #673 on the Cosmo cover. It really irks me. Beyond iriks even. Something between defeat and irksome. Or irritation and irksome. Somewhere between “I don’t want to be the wet blanket and make a snide remark” and “I’m a confident woman who feels attractive (most of the time) and is not so neurotic as to have a dialogue with a magazine cover and in turn, male companion.” But in the end, I walk away with a scoff because I’m already shallow enough to care.
Not to be depresso, but remember when you used to read entertainment/music/whatever pieces in the newspaper and some new ingénue was 25 and you felt like that was miles a way and thus gave you that much more time for achievement? Well, now I’m older than all the ingénues and I don’t have anything to show for it! Plus, how often to you read about the 29-year-old wunderkind at such-and-such company? You don’t, because by that point you are expected to have achieved something! ARGGGHHHH!!!!!!
Okay, so now I just need to lie in my self-made bed and shut-up.
Good night!
I want my gossip! - 2005-08-17
Goodbye, BGT! - 2005-08-08
hell hath no fury like a awriting workshop - 2005-08-01
My Love Don't Cost a Thing - 2005-07-14
Kiss My Grits! - 2005-07-06
