Big News

I got a new job. Please, please—hold your applause until the end.

It all happened so fast. One minute I’m sitting alone in a tiny office, writing fart jokes for greeting cards and—BOOM!—the next thing I know I’m in a fancy downtown agency that has a ping pong table, beer on tap and awards lining the walls, trying to write copy for a major fast-food joint. I wasn’t looking for a new job but this just kind of fell into my lap—I know, I hate people who have that kind of luck too. But remember, it was only a mere 18 months ago when I was drowning in the despair of unemployment, thinking I would never find a writing job and then, just when I was about to give up and start cleaning rich people’s toilets, I found a great job which has since led me to another great job. I’m not going to say anything about the power of a positive attitude or about how the economy is getting better because optimism makes me feel dirty, but I will say that perseverance in the face of total shit does pay off. If it weren’t for this blog and my Twitter addiction, I wouldn’t have gotten this new job. That being said, I still can’t believe there are people out there who are willing to pay me to put words on paper.

I started my new job about six weeks ago and so far I love it. Although I wouldn’t have admitted this a few months ago, I missed the hustle and bustle of the ad world. I missed stressing out about other people’s problems. I missed having to work late because I was needed. I missed powering through a ten-hour workday on three hours of sleep. I missed being challenged and pushed to my limit. I know, I’m a total masochist.

Although I worked in advertising before my stint as a greeting card writer, I never worked in the creative department. Creative departments at advertising agencies are like beehives, we’re all responsible for our own pollinating; yet we’re all dependent on a queen. The queen bee is mostly the client, but can also be a creative director, an account manager, the economy, anything—the point is, even though we have the freedom to fly wherever we want, buzzing and stinging shit, our survival is contingent on a much larger entity, which provides us with the work to do. And if the queen bee dies, the beehive has only a short window of time to replace her before the entire hive is compromised and all of the worker bees die. So, uh...long live the queen! I guess?

Despite my uncanny ability to put people off by acting like a total ass, everyone I’ve met has been extremely nice and welcoming. I get the feeling that my coworkers are trying really hard to not seem too stressed out or pissed off around me, which is adorable and flattering. Apparently I started at a really busy time because at least once a day someone tells me, “I promise, it’s not usually like this.” I haven’t told anyone how much I enjoy being a busy bee. I just smile and nod a lot because 90 percent of the time I have no idea what the hell I’m doing, which makes everyday an exercise in not looking like a total idiot. For instance, it was my second or third day when an email came through regarding a project for a client.

“Can you do a download at 10:30 this morning?” it said.

I sat at my desk, reading and rereading the email. What download? Am I supposed to download something? Am I supposed to download myself? Can you do that now? There was no attachment to the email, no instructions, so I just replied, “Sure,” hoping more information would come to me as a result. I waited 30 minutes and there was no response. It was 10:15. I was running out of time to figure out this whole download thing, so I decided to consult a nearby coworker.

“Hey, uh, Sarah? Can you tell me what this means?” I gestured towards my computer screen as if it was full of hieroglyphics I needed to interpret.

“Sure. What’s up?” she said, rolling her chair over to my desk.

“So, I got this email and it says I need to do a download but it doesn’t say anything about what the download is, where I get it, how I get it, and I’m apparently supposed to do this by 10:30,” I said, trying to disguise the panic in my voice.

“What?” Sarah leaned in to read the email. “Oh! No, no, not like a computer download. It means they’re going to download you on a project, like, they’re going to tell you about it. It’s like a verbal creative brief." My insides turned to stone and I cringed.

“Oh, I see. Well, I feel stupid now.”

“Don’t. It’s industry lingo. You’ll get a hang of it,” she said and rolled back to her desk like it was no big deal I had just spent the last 45 minutes trying to figure out how download some mysterious file for a meeting.

“Cool. I get it, yeah…well, I’m going to go get downloaded now…I’m going to get the down-low, the DL, the—”

“It’s just download, nothing else,” she said.

“Right, I was just—yeah, cool, never mind…okay, I’m going to do that.”

Since then I’ve said and done countless other dumb things. I don’t know enough yet to know how dumb I seem, but that’s what learning is, right? You throw yourself into the unknown, try to fake your way through it until you get a hang of things and then you look back and squirm with embarrassment every time you think of what you were before you became what you are now. It’s hard. It’s tough. It’s stressful. It’s everything I ever wanted, for now.

Living With Forgotten Ideas

Like diarrhea, you never know when a good idea is going to hit you. I've found that I often get ideas as I'm drifting off to sleep because this is when my brain decides to work after a long day of faking it. For this reason I started leaving a pen and a notebook on the nightstand (I learned my lesson about not writing anything on my hand or arm after the day I walked around with "sunflower seeds forget elephants" imprinted on my cheek).

An idea that comes to me in the middle of the night or as I'm falling asleep always seems like the BEST IDEA I'VE EVER HAD. Of course, this is almost never true. Sometimes I wake up excited the next day because I remember the feeling of a brilliant idea, but that excitement generally fades when I try to make sense of what I wrote down.

For example, I have no idea what "Twins—ugly and pretty—blame each other for face parts" means but I'm sure in my half-awake state it made sense. Here are a few more things I've jotted down in the wee hours and never made sense of:

"Jealousy has big teeth."
"Like salty popsicles - life and freezer burn."
"Big crosses and fancy purses."
“Falling from Tyra’s forehead.”
"Carry-on body."
"You are everyone here – a hate pit."
"Looney Tunes t-shirts."
"Coupon cutting condescension."
"Are you smarter than a Brit?"
“Life-ing my live.”
"Hammered and nails - not drunk."
"Ovaries song - hip thrusts to techno Babies beat."
“A sandwich shop for feelings.”
"Shitting crumbs."
"Unbroken is bad, break the window."
"New area codes—I don't get one."

There’s something about getting paid to be creative that messes with your ability to judge your own ideas. So instead of playing gatekeeper, you just start writing down every half-formed idea you have and thinking, “maybe this will make sense another day,” even though you’re almost sure it never will. But there’s always the chance, the hope for inspiration and that’s why I can’t throw away anything I write, whether scribbled or typed, because maybe one day all of my orphaned ideas will come together and make babies and live happily ever after…or maybe you’ll just see me on "Hoarders."

Creative Advice

If you live and work as a "creative" then you've likely been the recipient of often well-intended but mostly empty and unhelpful advice. This advice usually comes at the expense of yet another creative meltdown where you look at your work and wonder why the hell you keep trying. Well, we all know why we keep trying—because a.) we can't help it, and b.) it feels unnatural to do anything else. It's not because someone once told you to "never give up" or to “try harder.” It's because every time you think about giving up and resigning yourself to a future of desk jobs where you crunch numbers and prepare TPS Reports, you manage to feign a streak of creative inspiration that propels you out of the meltdown and into temporary awesomeness (at least until your next meltdown).

Successful people love to give advice. Hell, I love to give advice and I’m not even successful (but oh boy, I’ve got a few pointers that will really make a difference when you make your next set of macramé pot holders!). We all go through phases in our own lives where “GIVE ME ADVICE” seems to be tattooed on our foreheads. During the time that I was unemployed this year (ahem, most of this year), I heard a lot of advice. Some of the advice I got was helpful like, “if duct tape won’t fix it, it is definitely broken,” and, “don’t bite the hand that feeds you, even if they insist on feeding you shit.” It was the vague, general and ultimately shallow advice that seemed to eat away at my soul everyday—things like, "be yourself - that's enough," or, "you have to believe in yourself, and then your career will take off."

You know what?

Shut the hell up.

I’m not giving up because I’ve already made it this far, I can’t avoid being myself (although sometimes I wish I could), and I believe in myself enough to know that you are full of shit.

So how about that?

What you got now?

Yeah…that’s what I thought—don’t you bring that weak Chicken Soup for the Soul shit ‘round here no more!

(Sorry, my outbursts are unpredictable lately.)

Anyway, being the obviously harsh judge of friendly advice that I am, I came across this golden nugget of Ira Glass advice that made me heave a sigh of relief, and for a moment, allowed me to forgive myself for all of the mediocre work I seem to be vomiting out on an uncomfortably regular basis. I’m sure some of you have seen this before, or heard it, but the message is one we all need to be reminded of while calm and sane (i.e., before the regularly scheduled meltdowns occur).



“It takes a while; it’s going to take you awhile; it’s normal to take awhile. You just have to fight your way through that, okay? You will be fierce. You will be a warrior. And you will make things that aren’t as good as you know in your heart that you want them to be, but you just [have to keep] making one after another…”

Alright, now I'm going to go write a whole bunch of crap that—if I'm lucky—will make me cringe when I look back at it years from now.

Thanks, Ira.

Character Monologue: The First Female Santa

In my Second City Comedy Writing class, one of the things I found so interesting was how we did a lot of exercises that were similar to the way improvisation is done. If you've ever been to an improv show, you know that it generally starts by asking the audience for an object, place or activity which the improvisers will then use as a prompt for creating characters and scenes. The exercise we did in class on the second day was similar to this: Create a character and monologue based on the action verb you were given. I was given the verb “carry.” Below is the first draft of what I came up with.*


Carrie – late thirties meeting with a doctor

Hi, I’m Carrie. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, doc. I’m just going to start at the beginning because I think you’ll get a better understanding of my reasonings that way.

I work at the mall during Christmas as Santa’s Little Helper, technically I’m an Elf, but my name tag says, “Carrie: Santa’s Little Helper” so that’s what I have to say I am. This isn't just a gig, it's an important step towards reaching my overall career goal. You see, I’m trying to start at the bottom and work my way up, but eventually, I want to be the first female Santa Claus. I mean, sure, okay, maybe there’s been some other female Santas out there that I haven’t heard about, but I know for a fact that if I were to play Santa, I’d be the first female to do it in the state of Tennessee…well, at least the first in Crockett County. And besides, I want to do this for the sake of feminism, which I'm a big believer in, especially during the holidays. I mean, I’ve got a lot of obstacles trying to keep me from achieving my goal and being a woman is just one of them—for instance, I’m Jewish, but has that stopped me from celebrating Christmas every year and working as Santa’s Little Helper? No, sir-ee! Lots of people think I just want to be a man and that’s why I’m all hung up on this female Santa thing, but it’s not true. I like being a woman just fine, which is why I’m here to see you, doc.

I know I’m paying you for your services, and I know you probably don’t understand why I want to get pregnant right now. But I’m running out of time, and you’re my last hope. You see, if I get pregnant now, I figure I’ll be about eight months along by December—pregnant ladies are generally pretty fat by then, right doc? So, if I have a nice big, round belly by December, it’s really going to improve my chances of getting to play Santa this year. I’ve tried gaining weight, but I just so happen to be naturally thin, and there’s a history of diabetes in my family, so it’s probably not a good idea anyway. And that brings me to why I'm here - I’ve decided to take an alternative route in order to fulfill my dream of becoming Crockett County’s first female Santa. Of course, yes, there are other reasons for me to do IVF. I mean, I’m nearly 40, unmarried, no prospects in sight, and menopause is practically around the corner. But with all those reasons aside—reasons you get other women pregnant for all of the time, mind you—I have even more reasons, dream-fulfilling reasons!

You see, I’ve been to other doctors and they’ve all turned me down, but my friend told me about you and so I thought I’d try to make it happen one more time. I know about what they did for that Suleman woman and she has EIGHT babies now! If I had eight babies, it would be perfect, just think—eight reindeer or elves! Come on, doc. I know it’s March and all, but in the spirit of Christmas, do you think you could shoot me up with some of that baby-making juice and help my dreams come true? I’ll even sweeten the deal by offering you a free permanent spot on the “Nice” List...

So, what do you say, doc—we got a deal?

*I promise I'll eventually stop geeking-out about my Second City experience, but for now you're just going to have to deal with it. Oh, and when I preface something by saying it's a "first draft" feel free to comment, make suggestions, critique, or whatever.

Second City: The First Day

This week I am in the land of Midwest opportunity—Chicago—taking two classes at Second City. A few weeks ago, somewhat on an impulse, I decided to sign up for an Improv and Comedy Writing class, because this is what I should be doing during my required, unpaid sabbatical, right? So I found myself suddenly stunned and propelled to take action upon realizing that this might be the only time in my life when I can reasonably justify such an experience. Whether it was the minimal commitment of one week (as opposed to, oh say, a three-year graduate program), or finally listening to my gut instead of letting my brain get in the way (stupid brain), or maybe it took people telling me that I’m funny to realize that I want to make people laugh (at me or with me, whatever)—either way it felt, with invigorating certainty, like the right thing to do right now.

Yesterday was my first day of classes—three hours of improvisation in the morning and three hours of comedy writing in the afternoon. They call the course an “Immersion,” which sounds like they are going to hold our heads under water until we emerged as amazing talents. Nevertheless, I had a great first day. It was the kind of day I think you spend your naïve professional years dreaming of, where you feel like you are powered by a constant, flowing stream of inspiration, excitement, passion and hope. I know it sounds trite, but I had goose bumps all day, and not just because of the artic temperatures in the building (I learned that the air conditioning is kept at just above frostbite in order to maintain “electronic equipment,” which is, of course, more important than human comfort). Maybe it’s the buzz of the city in the summer, the way you can feel the energy of life and activity pulsating through your body as you walk down the street, but I wasn’t even deterred by the homeless man’s piss I accidentally walked through.

Even though I was terrified of the improv class, having always felt most comfortable scribbling on paper or hiding behind a computer screen, I must say, I enjoyed it more than the writing class. But the writing class did give me a chance to reflect as our teacher walked us through the first exercise, a favorite of mine that I am all too familiar with: “Write for 15 minutes and don’t stop. You won’t have to read what you write out loud, and I don’t care if you write the same sentence over and over again, just write for 15 minutes without stopping,” said Joe, our writing instructor. I love this exercise because it forces you to fight your way out of a block, which can happen every third word. It also helps me be less critical—when you only have 15 minutes and you can’t stop, you have to let go of the word you just wrote, the sentence you put it in, you have to reserve your criticism, avoid the urge to edit as you go and just let the words flow organically. Anyway, I’ll stop geeking-out now, below is what I wrote during this 15-minute free write.

The room we are in is divided, not in terms of people, but by paint. The lower half of the room is a sort of putrid brown, the kind of shit color you’d find in a baby’s diaper, or maybe in your grandparents’ outdated bathroom. There’s a poster on the wall that has the word CHOKING written in big red letters and even though my vision is too poor to know for sure, I assume that there are instructions on what to do when someone is choking and how to perform the hymlic maneuver. The poster is laminated and shiny, which gives it an official presence. The weird part is, I don’t see a candy machine anywhere, small objects, or even food, so it’s not like there’s anything you could even legitimately choke on. It’s as if someone decided to snag it from a doctor’s office to make up for the lack of decoration and poop-colored walls. I mean, I guess if someone chokes on a pen top, or their own saliva—both of which I’ve nearly done myself—then maybe the poster would come in handy, assuming you had time to read the fine print instructions and then apply them before the choker croaked. “Oh, what’s that you say?” [Making the universal choking gesture] “Oh, you’re choking? Okay, well can you hold on just minute while I read up on and practice the hymlic maneuver?” Unless, of course, I’m even blinder than I think and it’s not a choking poster at all…maybe “choking” is an improv thing that I don’t get yet…

The carpet is a drab navy with a weaving of gray thread throughout. The sporadic stains seem to tell stories of past clumsy students, wannabe comedians who spilt their sodas on the famed floors of Second City, not knowing at the time that this would be the only impression they would manage to leave.

The air is blowing directly on me, set to an unreasonably chilly temperature; I can feel myself shivering as I write this. I’m the only one wearing a skirt, which I now realize was a terrible choice because these people are really fond of sitting on the floor in circles. It’s odd how difficult it is to get a group of about 20 adults to stand, or sit, in a shape that even sort of resembles a circle.

The people in these classes are from everywhere. But I find it strangely comforting that at least two of the students aren’t American—one is from England and the other Australia, which must mean that these classes are a big damn deal because their investment in terms of travel is double, even quadruple, compared to everyone else. The instructors keep asking us why we are here, what made us take this class and what we hope to get out of it, but no one actually says the truth: “I’m here to be discovered.” But you hear it every time someone says, “I’m here because I want to broaden my skills” and “I’m here to see what it’s all about.” Lies, ALL LIES! If I think I am here for any other reason than the dimming hope of one day becoming famous for a talent I’m not entirely certain I possess (even as I write that I know it’s not true—I believe I do possess the talent—but perhaps it is the strength, endurance and luck that I lack…?) then I’d be kidding myself. It’s not that my goal is to be famous (that would be a shitty goal) it’s that fame just seems to be the only way success is ever measured in this field. It is validating though, surrounding yourself with people who are just as hungry as you are (seriously, I had no idea that there were people out there more desperate for attention than me).

The cold is getting me again, creeping in from all sides and wrapping around my toes like barbed wire. I wish I had a Snuggie.

That’s all I got to in 15 minutes, nothing more than a descriptive rant, which, I’ve learned, tends to be my consistent fallback in the write moment (something I plan to work on while I’m here). I'm off to my next class now and tonight I think I’m going to try to catch a few improv and comedy shows, assuming the public transit system doesn't "trick" me again. As of now, I’m feeling quite confident that what I’ll walk away with after this week will be better than any fame or discovery, instead, I think I’m going to walk away knowing what to do next, which is more than I could have ever hoped for.

I guess it's only been a day, so I should try to keep my expectations reasonable, in the event that it all of a sudden sucks.

Stay tuned...

“Youth is wasted on the young.”

Little Big Girls: Tori (left) and Quinn

My sister, Tori (aka Torruption), has repeated this George Bernard Shaw quote to me multiple times in the past few months. She mostly uses it to put me in my place when I am complaining and using the term “quarter life crisis” a lot. The first time she whipped out this nugget of wisdom, I made fun of her for being preachy and pretentious, to which she said: “Your middle-aged self is going to hate you for being so stupid and not enjoying your youth and she is going to laugh her ass off at what your current understanding of a crisis is.” The fact that she spoke of my “middle-aged self” as a person entirely separate from who I am now made me feel weird, like maybe I should write this person a letter and introduce myself. And then I made my brain hurt by thinking about how my current notion of crisis would strike me as funny 25 years from now—I hope it’s not funny by crisis-comparison.

Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype perfectly, but then she turned fifteen and decided to revolt against me and all my big sisterness by becoming smarter, bossier, prettier and taller. She is only 20 months younger than me, but it always felt like so much more when we were kids. When I say that Tori used to fit the little sister stereotype, I mean that she wanted to do whatever I wanted to do and she would let me boss her around, too. I think I really took those years for granted because now she is the one bossing me around, telling me what to do with my life and usually trying to help me avoid a generally pathetic existence.

Between the ages of four and nine years old, Tori and I were really into two things: Barbies and playing “Big Girls.” While Barbies was more of a collector’s game, Big Girls was like reality TV before there was reality TV.

I took Big Girls seriously. It was a detail-oriented game that required a powerful imagination to create a realistic world. First, we would dig through our trunk full of dress up clothes, which included old Christmas dresses, Princess costumes from past Halloweens, and no longer stylish pieces from our mother and grandmother’s closets. Dressing up was usually the longest and most intense part of Big Girls, and it was occasionally drawn out by the opportunity to do our hair and makeup as well.

Once the preparation for Big Girls was complete, and we looked scarily like adults, we would then devise our stories.

“Well, my name is Sandra and I am a waitress and a singer,” I would say. Dressed in pink leggings, a blouse dominated by giant shoulder pads and a be-dazzled headband, I was in character—this was an adult version of myself that was entirely invented but also somewhat realistic.

“Okay, well my name is going to be Theresa and I am going to be waitress, too,” our friend Sarah would say. Sarah was our shared best friend and Big Girls was never complete without her (mainly because she had a much older sister that left a lot of really cool “Big Girl Stuff” behind when she went to college).

“I want to be a waitress, too!” Tori would chime in.

“Well what’s your name going to be?”

“Um, Star?”

“That’s stupid, Tori. Your name can be Stephanie.”

I directed the details of Big Girls like it was a Broadway production. This was professional make believe and I was the self-proclaimed expert.

The next step of Big Girls was to stage an everyday, work-related scene. So we would round up all of our kid-size tables and chairs and set them up like a restaurant. We would then go around to tables and have conversations with our “customers.” It didn’t take long before I would be bored with the monotony of the actual waitress duties. So we would start fighting with our fake customers and then we would act out the scene of quitting our waitress jobs, which was always dramatic and usually ended with someone crying and vowing to never return (ever again!).

You see, playing Big Girls wasn’t so much about pretending to be something you actually wanted to be; it was about pretending to be something in order to feel older. Now I am officially older, legally an adult and legitimately stressed out, and I wonder why I ever pretended to feel this way when the reality of it was so near. While I am pretty sure Big Girls appealed to me because of the theatrical aspect (because I am a ham), I know that there was always a part of me that couldn’t wait to grow up, and there still is.

In a way I feel like I never really stopped playing Big Girls because everyday is an intense game of make believe where I pretend to be a writer, a professional, a capable adult—I set up the scenes, get bored, add some drama to spice it up and then sometimes I end up running away crying and vowing never to return. Because of this, I decided to write my “middle-aged self” that letter:

Dear Middle-Aged Quinn,

Remember when you were little and spent the days playing Big Girls? Maybe not, that was a REALLY long time ago for you, and your memory might suck now. Well, anyway, back then I thought that the goal was to feel older, now I know it’s inevitable. So if you feel old now, which you probably do because apparently you’ve had 25 years of crisis-worthy experience to wear you out, try to find solace in the fact that even though you’re not as cute as you used to be, at least you’re not as dumb. I hope you don’t have to pretend anymore, but if you do, I understand—I mean, we are really good at it.

Also, you didn’t waste your youth like Tori (or George Bernard Shaw) said—you just pretended your way through a different, slightly more dramatic, version of it.

Peace out!

Love,
Quarter Life Quinn

p.s. – if you’re really gross and wrinkly now, I’m sorry about all those times I never used sunscreen and all those years I smoked and pretended like it wasn’t bad for me. Don’t be mad at me, I am young and stupid now so that you can be wise and smart later…when it really matters, remember?

p.p.s. – if you got plastic surgery, I am going to pretend to be really pissed at you.

Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn

In an effort to incorporate more visuals in this blog (apparently, like books without pictures, blogs without pictures aren't very fun either), I've asked some of my creatively inclined friends to think of, work on, draw up a ninja unicorn mascot and/or logo for me. The first to respond to this request was a dear friend, who will be known as Jobelle Holcombe. Her devotion to daily interruptions resulted in this gem:



Pretty spectacular, wouldn't you say?

I told Jobelle that my favorite part was a.) the fact that this Ninja Unicorn is drawn on a meeting agenda, and b.) the way this specific Ninja Unicorn seems to be saying, "What? You want some of this? You want a piece of me?!"

"I like how his hair is flowing in the pre-judgment day wind," Jobelle said of her design.
"His horn kind of looks like a carrot/penis," I said.

"Yeah, the horn started out a little shorter, but then I thought an uncomfortably long horn would make more of a statement. I was going to incorporate balls somewhere but the meeting ended," Jobelle said.

"No, the unicorn's anatomy gets confusing past the waist," I said.

"Yeah, kind of like a mermaids," Jobelle said.


So congratulations, Jobelle! Your design is now in the running towards becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn.


If you or someone you know is interested in becoming Quinnterruption's Next Top Ninja Unicorn, please send your design, along with an explanation to quinnkatherman@gmail.com.

The Creative Jealousy That Drives Us

My Green Monster of Jealousy

It’s not that I don’t want other people to do well. It’s not that I am a naturally jealous person (wait, is it?). It’s not that I don’t have my own “thang” going for me. But when you are a Creative, and trying to make a living as one, jealousy seems to rear its ugly-ass head in the dumbest, most debilitating ways.

Just the other day I received an incredibly nice, and somewhat undeserved, message from a fellow writer who said she was jealous of my blog. I had to re-read the message five times before my brain was willing to comprehend what she was saying. This writer, a woman I have always admired and felt jealous of since the day I met her, actually said: “I was depressed all weekend because your blog is so much better than mine.” What?! Come again?

I will hold her message to heart for as long as my insecurities plague me (so pretty much forever), not because it validates my mad skillz, but because it validates the green monster of jealousy that I always thought of as my own private weakness. To realize that the people I envy for their talents and creations are also capable of being jealous of me is like finding out that Starburst sells packages full of only the Pink and Red flavors (oh yeah, I’m totally serious, hit up a QuickTrip near you).

Now I realize that jealousy is not just a disease of the unemployed. Although, since I’ve been unemployed, I have had ample time to peruse the online portfolios of the unemployed ad talent out there right now, and it’s enough to make anyone want to throw their portfolio in the trash and cry in a corner. It makes me wish that we could send all of this unemployed talent to an abandoned island and call it “The Lost Land of Advertising Fame;” there they could probably start a war, or at least convince people to join a war, and maybe win a shiny award for a really great Super Bowl ad. But since this is unrealistic, I am forced to compete with these people who ooze creativity from every pore while I sit around, oozing nothing but sweat, fear and envy. Given these circumstances, putting my rinky-dink portfolio out there feels like wearing a bathing suit made of bacon and then going for a swim in shark-infested waters. At this point, I’d have better luck trying to tap-dance my way into a job.

On a positive note, I have found that this type of jealousy and creative combat can be an excellent source of motivation, and thus I have started another blog, which will serve as my resume/portfolio/bio/pseudo-professional site. You’ll find the link in the side bar, and also right here. It’s not much because I haven’t done much (I mean, geeze people, I’m only 24 years old, which is practically 12…if you divide it by two), but if you have feedback, advice, suggestions, or other projects that will help me beef it up, and create seething jealousy among other ad talent, feel free to drop me a line.

In the meantime, I’m going to put on my big girl pants, which means a slightly nicer pair of sweatpants than those I slept in, and keep on truckin’, because I’m a ninja unicorn, damnit!