Thursday, October 30, 2008

Psychics, Soulmates and Lil' Wayne

"What if she tells you not to get on the plane?" Whitney asked, referring to the psychic we were about to go visit.
"Then I'm not getting on the fucking plane!" I said.

Except she didn't tell me not to get on the plane. We were all just too engrossed in a conversation involving psychic predictions and whiskey dick over the best pizza ever and Diet Cokes at the Wazee Supper Club to notice that we should probably leave for the airport, so I could get on a plane back to reality. I remember saying, "I don't want to leave!" as I got out of Whitney's car at the airport in Denver last Sunday night. And, all I have to say is, be careful what you wish for because I was right back at Whittah's apartment a few hours later when they told me I arrived too late to check in. Fuckers.
Most of the next morning was spent wringing my hands in anxiety hoping they would call "Standby passenger Hastings," all the while thinking I was surely stuck in Denver for the rest of my life. I did get home eventually...14 hours later.
Of course my little flight-missing debacle did spark the beginnings of an angry consumer letter that will promptly be sent to United Airlines, who apparently hires the biggest assholes they can find to work customer service, just as soon as I can refrain from sprinkling the letter with such choice phrases as "a bunch of fucktards" and "scruncy face fat bitch." I'll be sure to post it when that happens. I also owe Jen Lancaster, one of my favorite authors, a thank you e-mail for making me at least crack a smile (when I would usually be laughing out loud) in my zombie-like state at the airport while reading her third book, "Such a Pretty Fat," as well as a thank you note to Whittah's roommate Rachelle who literally got up at the crack of dawn, no PRE-dawn, just to drive my flight missing ass to the airport the next morning.
Damn, and to think I complained about the little shit on my flight to Denver who screamed, "LALALALALALA!" continuously the last 15 minutes of the flight. I'd take a hundred of him any day just to avoid dealing with the fucktard, scruncy face fat bitches at United...
Now that the conclusion of the trip is out of the way, let's go back to the beginning:

Thursday night was spent catching up on all the Denver news. In other words, the conversation between Whittah, me and Danielle consisted of work, men and booze...you know, the essentials...oh and there was a brief discussion about Halloween costumes and whether or not He-Man and She-Rah were brother and sister...and Whitney falling on her ass in a crowded bar...
Anyway, while inhaling hummus and wine at the Tavern Uptown, I learned that Whitney had met a guy known as "Red Hat Man" who Danielle was convinced was the male version of Whitney and therefore her soulmate. Well, I had to be the judge of this and the next night RHM a.k.a. "soulmate" allowed me to do just that...JUDGE.
After one of the best and apparently strongest margaritas in Denver at Rio and a birthday celebration for one of Whitney's friends Coral at Wazee where I discovered this pizza that may just make me move to Denver, we headed to a couple of bars Friday night.



RHM and crew were around, but I was a little distracted by the Jager bomb provided by none other than Jan Clark's Visa, usually reserved for tequila, and the rap off I

had with Whitney's cousin's husband Nick to Young MC's "Bust a Move" to pay too much attention to him. I knew quite a few of the words, but I couldn't keep up with Nick who has apparently had the song on repeat in his car on his way to and from work since it came out in the late '80s.
After we were herded out on the street by several large, yelling bouncers at 2 a.m., I began to notice that RHM was more than a bit of drunken jackass - flailing around, yelling nonsense, running out in the middle of street in front of cars, unable to form coherent sentences, especially to Whitney. We were all less than impressed and while shivering in the cold trying to hail a cab, the quote of the trip was born: "My soulmate's a douchebag."
But, since Rachelle had been talking to douchebag soulmate's friend, they all ended up at the apartment where DS left cheese wrapper carnage all over the kitchen, drank milk mixed with old beer out of a wine glass, bucking bronco-ed his ass throughout the apartment and just generally behaved like a rude, obnoxious retard. The girls escaped to the bathroom with a bottle of vodka to hide from the situation we put ourselves in and this was the result:



Peeling ourselves out of bed at a decent hour the next day was surprisingly easy especially after the night we had. We put on our purple, Andrea and Logan picked us up and we headed to Boulder for the K-State/Colorado game. Whittah and I had flashbacks from our spontaneous roadtrip to Boulder for the game in 2004, which involved a stay at our University of Colorado sorority house, freezing our asses off at the game, consuming (or trying to at least) the worst Cosmos ever made, shots of Grand Marnier, wandering aimlessly (no, really, AIMLESSLY) down Pearl Street, Whitney crying when she found out 'Ole Dirty Bastard died and an attempted hike to the Theta Xi house for a party at 4 a.m...It was the best idea EVER after all of the previously mentioned events though we only got about 14 feet down the sidewalk before giving up.
This time we settled for lunch and beers before meeting up with Whitney's friend and Colorado alum Chris, who entertained us with a tailgate...except I've never been to a tailgate that involved two grown men sharing a banana seat bicycle ride:



Logan + Chris = Bromance

Or a rousing game of donkey balls with Chris' mom:



The game was basically a "who sucks the least in the Big XII" match up and K-State lost by one motherfucking point, so I suppose we all know the answer to the question now. My Wildcats, you are absolutely horrendous at football this season, but I still love you.
After a quiet ride back to Denver, we headed out for a more chill night...that is until I met the girls' friend Ashley, who welcomed me with a lemon drop shot - my kind of girl. Douchebag Soulmate was there...again...being a dumbass...again...except this time we didn't drink enough alcohol to tolerate another night of him galavanting around the apartment, so we left him to run out in front of cars and allow natural selection to take care of him instead.
Sunday involved sleeping in (glorious!) and a small hike to Bump & Grind - a restaurant where drag queens serve you breakfast. The decorations consisted of bright colors and transgendered Barbies hanging from metal trees while "Fergalicious" blasted from the speakers. The bald headed host(ess) with yellow eyeshadow streaked up to her/his ears wearing a hot pink netted dress stuffed with Nerf ball boobs said the wait was 45 minutes to an hour - a little too long for us. As we walked out and decided we'd go to the restaurant Coral worked at instead, I saw a drag queen deliver a couple of meals to customers on the patio wearing a bikini - a very bottom lumpy bikini. Perhaps it's OK I didn't get my breakfast with a side of bulge. Just seeing the place was good enough for me.
Breakfast led into the hunt for a psychic and we ended up sitting on a couch watching the "Poseidon Adventure" with some Romanian dude (who turned out to be the psychic's dad) while waiting for said psychic to come downstairs for more than 20 fucking minutes. We knew this experience would be kind of strange, but this was just bizarre even more so because they ran this business out of their house and there was some larger than life photo of a mobster looking guy staring at us from the front hallway. Creepy.
Then, to top it off, there was no turban or scarves or robes. She totally came down the stairs in a t-shirt and sweatpants and looked like she hadn't slept in a good 48 hours or was completely strung out on meth. I suppose having other people's "energies" constantly swirling around in your head might just drive you to drugs to silence the "voices." However, she did pretty much scare the shit out of me with what she told me. It was nothing bad, she was just strangely accurate about the present. She knew I had been looking for a job, was a neurotic freak of nature, that my past love life had been filled with a slew of negative people and that dating had been particularly difficult for the past six months. If you recall, about six months ago I escaped the insane asylum that was living with my ex-boyfriend and started dating again. Apparently I'm also not destined for spinsterhood - I just have to wait six years and despite my children protest, I'm destined to pop out two of them. Well yea, hooray. A long, prosperous life is in front of me - or at least that's what the psychic envisioned in my palm.
As for Whitney, let's just say she's going to be obsessed with the initials JSM for the next year and a half. I'm sort of glad the psychic didn't give me that detailed of information about my future hubs. I'm neurotic enough as it is...
And now we're back to the end of the story where we went back to the Wazee to chat about all things innappropriate for dinner conversation...especially in public...but I think the old dudes next to us got a thrill from eavesdropping. They haven't seen that much action in years.
As for 'Lil Wayne, I discovered my hatred for this "rapper" during this trip. Whittah's ghetto children have apparently been rubbing off on her because we listened to T-Pain and 'Lil Wayne's "Can't Believe It" about 642 times. WORST. SONG. EVER. Mostly just because 'Lil Wayne comes on, you can't understand anything he's saying, and he's greasy and creepy and his "singing" voice makes my skin crawl. *shudder* Then we discovered just how many other songs 'Lil Wayne gets to chime in on and each time we heard one, I screamed and changed the station.
And, now off to craft my United Airlines hate mail. Fucktards...

Friday, October 17, 2008

Greetings from Denver

Before I even interviewed for the new j-o-b, I decided to listen to the warning e-mail from my editor that the end of the year was coming up and we could only transfer 40 hours of paid time off into 2009 (I have well over 80 hours), and take a few days off to visit Whittah in Denver again. All of girls visited back in April for my 25th birthday — best birthday ever! I need to update that entry with hilarious pictures...
Anyway...
Of course the nature of my current job (one more week left!) only allows me to take two or three days off at a time and three days is pushing it, so I took Thursday and Friday off this week. I flew out yesterday afternoon and here I am, chillin' by myself in Whittah's apartment while I wait for her to get off work. But I don't mind hanging out for a while because it lets me get some things done. The feeling of boredom is foreign to me since I ALWAYS have something I need to do especially since I just quit my job. You work two or three times harder during that two week notice period with all the catching up, cleaning up, exit interviewing, goodbyes, e-mails, organizing...and here I am on vacation right in the middle of it when I have a whole week of vacation coming up Oct. 27 through the 31st. I didn't know I was going to be saying "peace out" to this job when I booked this mini vaca and I unknowingly screwed myself. But, I'd much rather be here right now and just work a few hours longer each night next week, than be working right now because I LOVE Denver...and I guess Whitney's OK too...I joke, I joke! She's my adventurous pal and we always seem to come away from a night out with each other with an absolutely ridiculous story that would never happen to anyone else. We have a stockpile of stories already and a shitload of things planned for this weekend, but before I get into that, I would like to take a minute and share a bit of the debauchery that is "Crawl For Cancer," which happened Saturday.
Yes, I did it again. I participated in the best semi-annual fundraiser that has ever been invented — Crawl for Cancer. Millions of people form teams of 10 or 12, migrate to all the bars in Westport and drink themselves retarded with four pitchers of Coors Light at each of five bars all for the sake of kicking cancer's ass. In fact, some cancer survivors on the Crawl actually write that on their shirts and I'm sure at least a portion of the proceeds from this event are set aside specifically for liver cancer. To make a long story short, although we had the same bar schedule as last time, we grew from two to three teams, including many of my close friends, plus I know all of the people I met on the last crawl better, so it was even more insanely fun and shitfaced than it was in May. Here are some of my favorite shots from the day:

Go pink team!



Yes, this many of us from high school were there.



I don't know who this guy is, but he was rockin' the stilettos.



The shitfaced-ness has begun. Kate, me and Kendall stopping to capture the dance party on the bus in between bars.



Our rival flip cup team let me borrow one of their killer 'staches, which totally improved my chugging/cup flipping ability.



Dave + Sam = Hot Man Lovin'



The only time you will ever set foot in America's Pub to dance is when you're wearing a pink poodle balloon hat. (Jeff, me and Lacey)



The first pic of much of Kate and Sam's future wedding party a.k.a. their pride and joy.



Just because we graduated, doesn't mean we can't relive our college sorority days with a faux candlelighting at the bar.



Why yes Kate I will marry you. I'd rather marry you than most men.





And now back to Denver. Things have changed in six months since my last visit. Instead of south of the city, Whittah now lives near Washington and Colfax, which is apparently a bit 'hood except her apartment is gorgeous and right near downtown. She's also done with school and now social works many ghetto children in the Denver School District where tales of 16-year-old mothers dressed in blue from head to toe that come in for parent/teacher meetings reeking of weed abound. Like I've said many times before, I could never do her job. She wanted me to meet one of her favorites today that does a little dance when you ask him what he's doing over the weekend and says "paaaaartay," but he wasn't there. Gotta love ghetto children.
I had "the best burger in Denver" for lunch at Citygrille today, so I guess I can die happy now and other things on the agenda include a birthday party tonight in LoDo (Lower Downtown — look at me and my Denver lingo), heading to Boulder to tailgate and watch the K-State/Colorado game Saturday with Andrea and Logan, going back out on the town Saturday night and of course the typical visit to the neighborhood psychic on Sunday.
I love how Whitney sent me a text message Wednesday that said, "we should go to a psychic while you're here!" and I was all, "hell yeah!" So apparently I'll be taking my first trip to a psychic this weekend. I wanted to have my palm read on the street in New Orleans when we all went for our sorority senior sneak in 2004, but between the gallons of hurricanes and hand grenades along with the trip to the county emergency room, an incident with a one-armed homeless man, a run in with the cops and taking our jobs as Bourbon Street band groupies very seriously, it sort of slipped my mind. Yeah, it was a good trip...
Psychics freak people out because of the fear of bad news, but I just say, hey, if she tells me I'm going to die next week, it's just all the more reason to go skydiving, catch a plane to Vegas, marry a hot stranger in the Elvis chapel and perform during amateur night at a strip club within the next five days, right? At least that's how I see it...

Friday, October 10, 2008

Bittersweet

What a day, what a day.

Today I met this woman:



U.S. Congresswoman Nancy Boyda - a Democrat for the 2nd District of Kansas. Yes, a Democrat from Kansas - imagine that - and a Christian on top of that. Not that I give a shit if she's a Christian or not - most of the ones I know are horrendous judgemental hypocrites - but she emphasized that she came from a ultra conservative family who thought you couldn't possibly be a Democrat and a Christian at the same time. Or if you voted Democrat, God would strike you dead. Then, much to her surprise, she followed what she believed in instead of the threats from her family and God didn't strike her dead leading her to believe God isn't a Democrat or a Republican.
This message wasn't one I particularly warmed to since I'm agnostic leaning more towards atheism, but I thought it was a good one for the high school kids she was talking to. Most of those babies that are just starting to form an interest in politics yet are still in the grips of their parents' beliefs rather than thinking for themselves, will be going off to college next year and hopefully forming some of their own opinions.
Later on, she answered a "are you pro-life or pro-choice" question in a way I try to explain to people when they cross their hearts and begin to pray for my soul and all of my future unborn fetuses when they hear of my "pro-choice" stance. She said, "I hate to put a label on it" especially since she doesn't endorse either side, "but if you're going to do that, I am pro-choice." She said she was there in the '70s for Roe v. Wade and back alley abortions and explained how she never wants that to be an issue for women again. She made it clear that pro choicers are not lovers of baby killing. Contrary to popular belief, pro choice does not equal pro abortion, but pro awareness, pro education, pro prevention, pro adoption and PRO CIVIL RIGHTS. The kids actually applauded after that. She has my vote.
After enjoying one of the perks of my career, I promptly quit my job. Yeah, just marched right in there and gave my two weeks. Except I didn't know it was going to be so difficult. My stomach was burning and I almost cried because my editor was more open about his disappointment than I expected - not only because he has another position to fill, but because I was leaving. It blows to feel appreciated for the first time the second after you quit a job, but somehow it always seems to work that way. I re-explained the details of the new job and re-heard the appreciation and disappointment (though not for the first time since he has always been a cheerleader for me) from the photographer on the way out. The beauty of Facebook and all of my friends congratulating me on there allowed one employee to find out a few days earlier, but the rest will find out on Monday - not looking forward to that.
The reality of not only this whole "new job" thing, but career change is starting to set in and while I wanted this and agonized over this, I'm afraid of losing my identity as a journalist. It just doesn't seem as cool to respond to the "what do you do for a living" question with: "I'm an office bitch." And, throwing on the "...and freelance writer" thing just sounds douchey. Of course "office bitch" isn't exactly true since I'm supposed to be preparing marketing material for the company as well - something only an office bitch that possesses mad skills can do - so I believe I'll now be answering that question with, "I'm an office bitch with mad skills." We'll see what kind of conversations follow that response.
After my traumatic job quitting experience, I decided to lift my spirits with a little shopping, but not crazy, just-grab-all-the-shit-off-the-rack-I-like kind of shopping - I had lists. Mainly, the trip to the mall was to start looking for Gwen Stefani attire for my Halloween costume and with her style, Hot Topic was the place to go.
I've decided they need to hand out shots of whiskey at the door to give you a little liquid tolerance to handle that store. Metal music plays over the store speakers at a volume that's on the verge of ear piercing - especially since it's terrible at much lower volumes anyway - and it's covered in clothing and jewelry you would never actually wear unless you're blatantly trying to draw attention to yourself - "look at me, look at me, I'm totally emo!" All the little emo and goth children, including the employees, stare you down in that life-is-shit-what-the-hell-are-YOU-doing-in-here kind of way. They're all, yeah, you may have black hair, but you're totally just a poser in your business casual attire. Get out of OUR store.
As I was staring up at the teeny tiny plaid school girl skirts with chains attached and matching corsets, a female employee came up to me and said, "You look like you're looking for something." After I explained that I was looking for Halloween stuff, she (looking very annoyed) gestured to her left and said all the Halloween costumes were over there.
But, wait, this whole store is a Halloween costume.
And, since they don't serve Whiskey shots, I lasted about 10 minutes and left. I'm totally dragging Kate there to help me in the next few days because that store requires moral support...and a full flask-o-booze.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

I Got It!

Miss Lara the office bitch at your service. Yes, it's true, I have sold out and I couldn't be happier. The euphoric state I've been in since finding out that I got a new job last night has been like walking on air.
Even when I walked into the office today with two entire stories and a column to write, along with the paper to put together, I was stress free.
Even when the pot head douchebag I've been forced to sit next to for the past six months who has no regard for anybody but himself, is the largest dumbass to walk the face of the planet yet thinks he's motherfucking Einstein and makes me want to beat myself over the head with a blunt object, was acting even more needy and stupid as though he's never been face-to-face with anything remotely journalistic, I totally just gritted my teeth with the satisfaction that after the next two weeks, I would never have to see that face or hear that voice EVER again.
And, even when my column "didn't find a spot" on any of the newspaper pages, I just said, eh, there's always next week.
I was anxious to hear if I had gotten the job immediately after my interview last Tuesday, but I knew I had to wait until the beginning of this week. Friday evening as I was taking photos of the town's Homecoming parade while children pelted me in the face with smarties and tootsie rolls from passing "floats," I started to have second thoughts about leaving. Everyone knew me by name and said hi and one guy I had done a story on earlier that week had his car stop in the middle of the parade so he could hand me a Hershey bar the size of an encyclopedia. I thought, sometimes this job really is pretty cool...Then I sat through a dead horse beating four hour long city council meeting Monday night and came to my senses.
I was distracted the rest of the weekend with a trip to the American Royal BBQ Friday night (I've lived here my whole life and I've never been to this thing until now. What the hell kind of Kansas Citian am I?!), a life altering trip to Chuck E. Cheese for my cousin Aidan's third birthday Saturday evening (I even wrote my column about this. I'll let you know when they actually decide to publish it.)and Kate and Sam's engagement Saturday night. But, by Monday, I was jumping out of my skin to hear the news and by Tuesday afternoon, I was damn near hyperventilating. The boss man didn't even call me until quarter till six in the evening. Five motherfucking forty five P.M. By then, I was so wound up I couldn't even talk. And, just as I thought I heard him say "welcome to Level 4 Engineering," the phone started cutting out and I lost him.
GODDAMMIT!
But, then he called back, confirmed what I thought I had heard and I peed in my pants a little. Then it got even better. He told me they were impressed with me and my background and were excited to have me as the face of their company. I was all, I think I love you. Here I am, weary and defeated from my year long hunt that has only produced two interviews and one fatty fat rejection letter from a job I was highly qualified for and wanted so badly, along with the miserably failed relationship, a stint with my parents, my dating handicap and the fact that I'm the broke-est human being alive besides those that reside in cardboard boxes, I was almost convinced that I just completely sucked at life. And, here this guy was telling me I'm the shit? It couldn't have come at a better time.
While I wanted this job for the higher pay, normal hours and low stress - a.k.a. the opposite of my current job - so I could freelance and do more of the activities I want to do in life, each time I talk to him he mentions something more he'd like me to do such as use my journalism skills to their advantage - newsletters, brochures, etc...and I'll be happy to oblige just so I can do something other than book keep and shop for office supplies. It's a small, growing company open to new ideas, so I just pitch an idea and the vibe is that I'm going to get to run with those ideas. So, this job that I thought was simply going to be my escape from hell just might turn into my dream career, but I'm not banking on it quite yet. What a beautiful, beautiful thing I've stumbled upon.
I invited a few people out for some celebratory drinks tonight including my ninth grade boyfriend. Yeah, weird, right? I run into him from time to time at the bars and did so Friday night at the BBQ. Now we've been talking back and forth...
Anyway, I designated the Velvet Dog in Martini Corner as the celebratory bar for the night excect when I tried to get there, the streets were blocked off with yellow police tape and cop cars. You know Kansas City is experiencing a bit of a crime wave when you try to go to one of your favorite bars at 8:30 p.m. on Wednesday and people have already shot each other in the street in front of it. Awesome.
So, I settled on another favorite, the Foundry in Westport, also the scene of the tiki tiki party hat fiasco. Westport has also been shot up the past couple of weekends, but there was no yellow tape there preventing me from enjoying a couple of my favorite beers tonight - raspberry wheat brewed at McCoy's next door - and it was glorious.
Now all I have to do is break the news to my editor, put in those two weeks and enjoy an entire week of much deserved vacation before starting my NEW JOB on Nov. 3.
I'm so fucking excited.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Just a Tiny Bit Distracting...

While on the job hunt these days, you'd think getting an interview would be the hard part and believe me, with the whole two interviews I've gotten after a year of searching, it is hard. However, just when you think you're past the hard part and all you have to do is prepare a bit, the 36 hours before your interview are suddenly full of distractions such as parasites and dead bodies.
Monday began with back to back phone calls to my cell phone informing me that a dead body had been found in the town that I cover for the newspaper. Excuse me? A dead body in a town where people still "own land," where a new school is being built next to a working dairy farm and where there is only one fast food restaurant that is less than five years old? A town that you'll miss driving through if you blink? This was a big deal.
To top it off, I actually knew the people who owned the property where the body was found through past stories, so I pranced out to the woods to see and smell the scene...no, not the dead body itself, but the black spot he left in the grass after they hauled his horrendously decomposed body away. Eight arm mosquito bites later, I was back in the office fighting with the Web site to post my dead dude story. What a day for the Web site to be ghetto.
I tried to rationalize with my night owl self that night, which always sounds like a good idea in mid afternoon, but then later goes down the shitter when I look up and see the clock says 1 a.m. I didn't have a meeting to cover for work and the only thing I forced myself to do was make my apartment a little less shithole-ish. There was no excuse for me to stay up especially when I had an interview the next day other than the fact that I enjoyed wallowing in this mysterious thing called free time way too much. But, I figured 1 a.m. wasn't too bad considering some nights I casually look up from my writing or whatever project I'm working on, see a big glowing 4:30 on the clock and go, 'oh shit, perhaps I should sleep now since that's what humans are supposed to do.'
Here I am, ready for bed all "early" when I see Andy furiously attacking his ass - not exactly a normal thing - so I go over for a closer look and see a speck of dirt on his fur...Then the piece of dirt started moving. DAMMIT! I didn't even hesitate and practically flung the flailing fleabag into the bathtub, poured half a bottle of doggie shampoo on him and lathered him into a ball of suds. He must have picked up fleas from his stay at Kate and Sam's menagerie last weekend. So I spent the night with a wet dog huddled beside me and the irrational, yet possibly real fear that fleas were constantly crawling all over me. Yeah, no sleep, AT ALL.
The next morning was spent dousing Andy with Advantix, looking up ways to eliminate fleas from your home and striping my bed. I've had two people tell me they've had fleas in their house or apartment and apparently those little bastards are hard to get rid of. I didn't know if they had invaded my apartment yet, but I wasn't taking any chances. This was just what I wanted to be doing right then instead of working or prepping for my interview.
I left my sheets swirling in hot water and Tide while I went to work only to get another update from the police chief that the dead guy's cause of death was suicide by hanging...aaaaaaaand he might possibly be a murder suspect. WHAT?! I fucking sit through city council meetings and report on children raising cattle and the high school homecoming parade, not murderers who hang themselves in the woods. What the hell is going on? Why today of all days?
The chief tells me he'll call as soon as the fingerprints are confirmed, which I know will be right in the middle of my interview. After a few more hours of frantic news gathering, I head back home to continue my flea killing rampage and change for my interview.
With my mind occupied by dead dudes and jumping bugs for the past day and a half, I used my 15 minute drive to my interview as practice - posing the usual questions and working through how I would answer.
"Why would you be good for this position?"
"Why? Because I'm a fucking badass, that's why."
I literally talked out loud to myself, all the way there, blah, blah, blah, then I got into the interview, the guys were so laid back and they didn't ask me any of the usual questions. They basically just told me what I was going to do in the position and introduced me to everybody, which makes me think I got the job. Yes, I just may sell out and become more or less an office bitch for a few more dollars an hour and normal hours. The goal is to have time to get some freelance writing work and actually be able to write about what I want for once. Either I'll love it, or it will be a daily reminder of how much I loathe dragging my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn. I'll explain more once I know for sure whether I got it or not.
Sure enough when I got back to the car, there was a message on my phone from the police chief that said, "Lara, I've got your exclusive." Yeah, I choose to be a non-shitastic journalist by avoiding pissing off the important sources and it pays. After a lot of cussing through traffic, I get my story in which the dead guy actually does turn out to be a murder suspect, post it on the Web site, which finally decides to stop being an asshole and I'm Pulitzer Prize eligible.
Too bad I fully plan on selling out.
 

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