You're so mean

I'm writing this entry while watching Lost, so excuse me if my writing is littered with the signs of one's mind being blown. Damn, I love this show.

I have a new job, and I promised to myself that I wouldn't hold onto too many expectations. For the last three years, I searched for and took jobs I would hope would lead me to a career. Attorney, restauranteur, policy analyst. This time, I'm trying hard not to picture six years in advanced. What advanced degree I would need to actually pursue this degree. I want to go to work in a blue-toned place in a well-lit environment surrounded by people who don't hate their job, on most days. So I can just come home, read some witty nonfiction and roast some asparagus. Maybe do some painting. Move on up Maslow's hierarchy. And enjoy it, un-adulterated-ly.

I guess I always thought I would become a professional. Professional something or other. But, maybe not. Maybe not sounds alright.

And a shout out to my baby brother Zachary Robert, turning a twinkly 21 at midnight tonight. He was looking forward to his chance to "get drunk in public" this evening.* Through the magic of time zones, I called him after the ball dropped and he and his buddy were on the way to the Casino Queen (Wilco fans, take note), otherwise known as "The Boat". My mom took me out to the Boat on my 21st birthday, and with my shiny new $60, we played nickle slots and drank weak cranberry and vodka's on a Sunday afternoon. The after-church casino crowd is not normally cheeriest, but I received warm congratulations from the nearby retired ladies and Mom raked in more than $120 in nickel-riffic profits. My dad took me to Growler's Pub, with its 99 beers on tap, and I finished the night with Bloody Marys during Twang Fest at Blueberry Hill. A cherry on top. I hope all the same for my brother.


* At Jason and I's graduation party at our apartment, Zach declined beer and went for plastic-jug vodka and cranberry juice drinks (even during King's Cup), which led to uncharacteristic and indiscriminate outgoingness, and eventually, vomiting into a plastic grocery bag nine times before, during, and after his flight back to St. Louis. Ry and I tried to warn him, but in the end, only cheap vodka could learn him good.