Alice hates ...

I quit the State Press. Just now. I would post the email I sent, except for the fact that I didn't save myself a copy. But I bcc'd Rach on it, anyway.

Yesterday was Day 2 of the camp. I went, and I hated it. But that's to be expected.

Yesterday was also my deadline for my Lori story. Which I had done little on (up from very, very little, the other day). So, I'm sitting in their newsroom at this silly camp, thinking the entire time, "I swear, I could so find a better use for this time." And getting progressively stressed out.

After a very long and annoying lunch-bonding session, one of the editors says to me, "Hey, we need your new story ideas soon so you can get started for your Tuesday deadline."

Tuesday meaning, three days. To put this in another context, the day after my first story for them is due. Which I've done exactly nothing on. So I lie.

"Okay. I'll send you some story ideas I've been kicking around when I get to my desk," I said, packing up my stuff.
"We also need you to file a photo request for your first story," she said.
"... I don't have anything to take a picture of. It's about sleep. Do you want me to schedule a photo of someone sleeping?"
"No, no... who have you talked to so far?"
"Two students I ran into yesterday." (Complete lie, didn't talk to anyone yet.) "But they're gone now."
"Well, what about that doctor you were going to talk to? Schedule a photo for him or her."
"Okay. Fine. I'll work that out tonight." (Also, complete lie. I had no intention of doing anything but my Lori story.)

So I leave. Run, really, the hell out of there. Upstairs at ground level, it was cold, the sky was gray, and the pavement wet from a light rain. Thoroughly depressing weather. It was about 2:45, and I headed for my car, parked illegally (according to ASU) in lot 16. I'm thinking to myself, If I just drive as fast as I can over to work, I can get it all done in time. No biggie. And tomorrow, I'll finish my sleep story. And schedule a photo. And start the next one. No biggie.

I get in my car, reach for my lucky rubber band on the dashboard, to start putting my hair in a pony tail. (It's a thoroughly female thing. Tying your hair back is like putting on the "I'm going to work now" mentality.)

It snapped.

My lucky rubber band, the blue one that's shaped like an elephant, the one that came from my Mecca, The Container Store in Texas, that I bought on vacation the last time I saw Leah, that Marcia laughed at because she thought it was a democrat rubber band but she was wrong cause it would have to be a blue donkey, the one that held my spanish notecards together during my final last semester that I kicked ass on, and lived in my car just so I could put my hair up whenever I need to kick ass and take names, snapped.

Right at it's little blue trunk.

First thought: Damn. Not my little elephant!
Second thought: I can so not do this anymore.

Since I didn't have time to wallow in my grief over the demise of my elephant rubber band, I dried my eyes on my sleeve and resumed my plan of attack: drive fast, kick ass. (It's a good plan, most of the time.)


It didn't work. Between bouts of frantic calling at work, I kept thinking 'I'm never going to get this done. I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail, die alone, drop out of school and work at wal-mart, I'm going to fail, I'm going to end up as a hobo.'

I sent Rachel an email: "i'm thinking about quitting the state press. call me. help me help me help me help me help me" (or some similar variation)

I did get a response, exactly when I needed it. Rachel's point of view? "Fuck them, you don't owe them anything. You're doing too much now. Fuck them."

Which was the best thing she could have said. I felt better, instantly, resolved that I would, as soon as conviently possible, fuck them. By quitting.

I called my dad on the drive home. My dad, who calls himself my biggest fan, and always knows just what to say to make me feel better.

"Hi Dad. Are you at home? I just paid my insurance, by the way. (small talk) ... So, rember how I just started with the state press?"
"Yeah. What's wrong?"
"I'm thinking of... how do I put this? Not."

Dad's response was remarkably similar to Rachel's, in the the whole, f-them attitude. He said, basically, that when I try to do everything (and it happens more often than not), everything suffers, but mostly, me.

"Sure, it's going to piss them off," he said. "But their opinion is worth as much to me as a warm bucket of spit."


This still needs thinking on, I think. I'm just not feeling very coherent right now.