The Tale of the Pity Panini

Before I went to tech today, I went to the doctors’ for three overdue shots. Now, I know there’s some sort of scientific logic behind vaccines and all, but all my hillbilly instincts tell me about them is that they’re long, pointy, and filled with the type of disease you’re trying to prevent. Strangely, this is not comforting. When I have children, they’ll be going to the hippie-apothecaries who’ll be chant nice things about the sun and the flowers to heal them and hum in circles about the power and nature of being or something. No sharp pointy things. However, I will miss the band-aids. I got three. They were Tweety, pink flowers, and Snoopy. It was pretty badass.

I also got this bright idea to have all three shots in one arm. At the time, I thought this was terribly clever (I can still halfheartedly flail at things with my left arm!! I can kick stuff and maybe it’ll move!!) but after tech, my right hand had developed an uncontrollable twitch and the rest of it had about the mobility of a jelly noodle. Hm. Pair my now-badass bandaged arm with the fact that I didn’t wait the full time you were supposed to wait after those vaccines (I couldn’t stay in the waiting room. There was a scary lady there who kept looking at me venomously, like I was going to eat her babies or something.) and I was definitely a sight. I tottered out of there with pride.




I appeared at tech with maybe twenty minutes to go until lunch, so I spent that time quietly painting poster-board in Super Garish Halloween Diner Pumpkin Fest orange-and-yellow checkers, and felt useful. When it was time for lunch, it was agreed we were going to Panera.

I was so excited. I had a whole ten dollars. Besides, my friend works there now, and she told me that basically if you took Christian religion and replaced ‘Jesus’ with ‘bread’, you’d have Panera’s philosophy. This is true enough.

When we got there, I ordered a panini and some lemonade, confident in my ability to not spend ten dollars at a sandwich place. But this is Panera, remember, where bread is their Jesus, and it’s not to be taken lightly. My total came out to $10.25. I checked my pockets.




So I sat there, dumbfounded, heartbroken, and pretty damn hungry, since I hadn’t eaten and I’d just been shot up with a bunch of deadly diseases. My cashier, who was a motherly-looking, short little woman, said,

“Don’t worry about it, honey. I got it.” And she rung up my food.

I stood there, gaping stupidly for a while. Until she told me to move on. This is not in the Panera Commandments, I bet. But I did as she told and waited unnaturally long for my food, wondering if maybe she hadn’t provided for me after all and I was going to get bounced for being poor. But that didn’t happen. Instead, two paninis under my name came up. WTF? I hadn’t paid for those. I hadn’t even paid for one! But, as any good, selfish-minded girl with a magic panini-fairy-godmother would do, I took one (and made an awesome techie go get my other one) and scrambled off to my seat.

The only explanation I can come up with is that it was out of pity.

I mean, imagine me. I was sitting there, poor, and obviously malnourished, with three vaccine band-aids up my arms from shooting up or donating blood or something like that, and I probably had like a family at home to feed or something, since I didn’t have a quarter to buy my super expensive lunch. That was definitely the reason. I mean, I was a pretty sorry sight. It was humid outside so my hair was all reacted and stuff. Maybe the shirt I was wearing made me look like I was preggers. Something made my magic panini-fairy-godmother pity me, and I took that pity panini with pride, dammit, and went home quietly to a land where impossible things didn’t happen anymore.

You can’t take A State Seriously that’s Shaped Like A Turtle and Has A City Named ‘Man Asses’

In Super-Concentrated History-R-Us (Take one packet per day and just add water for four weeks of history fun!) we learned about a Civil War Battle. It took place in a city called Manassas. MANASSAS?! What the hell kind of sorry name is that?! I mean, I know it’s probably named after some esteemed serious general or something, but honestly, Virginia can’t suffer any more wrongdoings. It’s already shaped like a turtle. A name that sounds like ‘Man Asses’ doesn’t improve that. Not when you’re trying to study history, and you read a sentence as ‘The soldiers fought to gain control of Man Asses.” WTF? Am I the only one who sees it like this??

To celebrate my learning, I made a song when I was studying, complete with Sister snapping along. This is pretty much how it went as I made it up.

Oh, I’m going to school to go to my classes,
I’m driving along in my fake cheap sunglasses,
All to learn about the city Manassas,
in the poor little state of Virginia.
Now some other cities have names that aren’t cool,
but when it’s summer and sunny and you’re stuck in school,
you’re easily amused and you look like a fool
when you shout in your class
how the city’s ‘Man Ass’
is just a name that’s utterly cruel.
Oh, I’m driving along to go to my classes
and I prolly will be the one kid who don’t passes
And before I get taken away by the masses
of people who don’t like the city Man Asses!!!

**bows**

Thank you.

Being an Adult Is Fun (For The First Two Weeks)

Today I went to the grocery store. I know. YOU don’t think it’s exciting. Well, apparently YOU haven’t been grocery shopping with me. I had two hundred dollars to spend and about half of that was for dinner stuff, like healthy cheeses and fancy vegetables and stuff, so the other 100 went to stuff me and Sister have to survive on. It was kind of fun: I felt all authoritative and old, like ‘I can drive now! So now I can buy things that I actually like to eat but at the same time make responsible choices!’, which turned out to be Target-brand ‘Marshmallow Treasures’, chocolate milk, and Liquid Happiness. I bought yogurt, too, which has fruit so technically it’s healthy. We added up everything’s price so we didn’t over spend, and I felt like a college student/AWESOME. We even had enough money to go to Portillo’s after this was done, so it was really convenient/DOUBLY AWESOME. On the way there, however, I realized I was missing my phone and the last place I’d put it was on the Target checkout counter, so my awesome-osity was diminished by like 500 points. I sprinted back there, went to the Community Service desk thing or whatever it’s called, and saw a woman there trying to call my contacts list, which out of all seven people I had on it, probably none of them would be helpful. Anyway, I found my phone and enacted my Hero-Run back to my car, with dramatic music and everything, and me and Sister went to go gorge ourselves on our success.



FAIL MOMENT OF THE DAY: I left my phone in Target, the panic making me forget about groceries, which were left in the car for about 40 minutes while Sister and I had lunch, then I forgot that it was boiling and that Philip acts as a greenhouse-gas-inspired Fiery Pit of Hell for milk products, so when I poured a huge glass of chocolate milk later that day, I realized it was bad only after I’d drank it. Fail. This later was almost topped by my sister reasoning that since ONE egg broke in our new egg carton, all the eggs must be bad and therefore should be thrown out. I think Hitler used similar reasoning.

Diagram of a True (Or Mostly True) Cubs Fan

Hi. I'm tired. This is a boring sentence. Amazingly, not everything that comes out of my mouth is sassy and delightful. Therefore, instead of talking about my sooper fun filled Cubs game, I'mma draw pictures of what a True Cubs Fan looks like. Sort of.

You see, they travel in packs. They've always got silly-ass little purses to hold their money for Diet Cokes in. Their hair is unsusceptible to the elements. It's amazing.


Here's what happens on a windy day to their hair. I tell you, it's something to see.


The sparkles, I think, are the sparkles that protect their hair against the elements. Each sparkle is + 1 XP at being a True Cubs Fan. Side effects include knowing all the cute little Wrigley jingles, only knowing Sammy Sosa was a player (once), and rooting for a team that lost ten to zero today and hasn't won a World Series in 101 years.

On the other hand, here's what I look like at a Cubs game:




It's Wrigley Field, I know it. It's teamed up with wind-power to single out those of us who didn't buy Cubs shirts right before the game.

You know what else is remarkable about Cubs games? The food. Daddy dear, who came back into town to watch this game, decided through some flayed logic that the food MUST be healthier after five years of not being at Wrigley Field. So while Sister got a chicken sandwich and he got a hot dog, we looked around. It was astounding, the amount of healthy food they had. You've got your basic fruit from lemonade smoothies, your vegetables in the onions and jalapeno peppers on the burgers, you've got your starch from fries, your fat from chocolate malts, and your grease from basically anything above. Intent on finding something vegetarian, Daddy dear left us and came back with this:



It was the thought that counted.

6 Examples of Everyday Bothersomeosity

You may have to click on the pictures to make them larger.

1. Answer Jockeys.
They don’t know where the book is, poor things.



2.The Way People Breathe In Video Games. Take Link, for example. Who moves around that much when they breathe?! The only thing I can think of is that he has super-giant elf-lungs and must have to constantly move or else die or something.



3.Silly Bands.
Self-explanatory.



4. Skater Punk Sass.
I just loves me some skater punk sass.




5.Stereotypes
With handy Les Mis characters to demonstrate!




6. Hypocrites.

I Used To Laugh At Those Poor Suckers

Holy way too much information, Batman! So I got my week of summer, and now it’s back to school. Or what it would be like if you died without taking your fair share of history classes and had to make them up in Hell, either one. Okay, so my class really isn’t that bad, and my teacher’s a white-tube-sock-wearing fresh out of college kid who’s shorter than me and doesn’t mind people talking, but still. US History Concentrated Edition is six weeks long, but each day has the content of two weeks. That means if you zone out for like a second, you’ve missed a day. We read a chapter every night and have a real test every morning. And each class is six hours long, meaning six slots for Lecture Time!
Or, we’re treated like kindergarteners, and we get to fill out maps of the US. I worked on mine diligently. I mean, I may have ended up with more than a couple Virginias and some of my Carolinas were missing, but that’s okay. We only need one anyway. Or is it two? And are they supposed to be touching, or can they be at diagonals? Well, thank goodness for the North states, because they’re DEFINITELY all up in the north. And the capital of Hawaii is ‘Luau’, right? Because I kept trying to write that down and it seemed right. From what I know and stuff.



Taking a Modern European course before this was probably not a good idea. I can only see the US in terms of Europe now.



As if that isn’t bad enough (okay, now I’m just joshing myself. The whole middle of the day I felt like we were being baby-sat with Activity Learning Activities. We even got to watch a cartoon. I think life should have more people singing and dancing to protest that the world is round.) we had to do a group activity where we were advertising British colonies. My group’s was the New Netherlands. Man, were they a sucky-ass colony. They basically produced snuff and hunted down small animals. Also, they gave up after running the colony for five years without a fight. How the hell do you advertise that?? ‘Hey, come live in New Netherlands, we’re…peaceful, man. We love EVERYBODY, man. And we loves us the animals. Peace out!’ Yeah, no. My group wouldn’t even let me draw an Uncle Sam on the board wearing an I <3 NY shirt. My life is hard.

The Original Twilight Critic

I was the original Twilight critic. In seventh grade, when all my other girl friends were going ballistic over Edward-the-shiny-Jesus-manwoman, I clutched my copy of Markus Zusak’s I Am The Messenger (my favourite book then, and still pretty damn good now) to my chest and told myself feverishly that it would pass. But did it pass? No. It was an EPIDEMIC. Every single girl in the school, it seemed, knew about it or had read it. I watched as my friends, one by one, were gunned down by the sniper known as Stephenie Meyer’s Really Bad Third Grade Word Choice. They carried dog-eared copies of the book around, swooning over Edward’s golden-y delicious eyes or his rock-solid abs, which, if you hadn’t read 23 times by the third or fourth chapter, Stephenie Meyer would like to remind you were alabaster and pale as the moonlight on the shimmering river-waters of the fairielands. He was such a perfect character, and so sparkly in the sunlight, and just so all-around over-described as the most amazing sparkly vampire boyfriend EVER that this is all I got out of it all.




It was kind of like digesting a cupcake-rainbow by smooshing it into your eyeballs.

I just didn’t understand the appeal. Were boyfriends SUPPOSED to stalk you while you slept? Wasn’t that a little bit creepy? What if Edward had been 47 years old? Then would Bella still love him? And was there any actual love in the book, or was it just awkward teenage lust-lunges? It was way too complicated for my thirteen year old mind, I reasoned. Maybe I’d understand it one day.
But today, three books later, I still don’t get it. In the last one, Bella had her demon baby, but only because she lived because she turned into a vampire. This is what I got out of it.
EDWARD: Hehehe, let’s have BABEHS.
BELLA: I knew you loved me! *swoon*
EDWARD: Well, I can’t hurt you.
BELLA: BITCH PLEASE. HURT ME.
EDWARD: Well okay…I mean, it’s not going to be a good example for our younger rea---
BELLA: (copping New York accent and cigar): Look. Eddie darlin’. This is a book where you stalk me, I almost commit suicide when you’re not around, and now, defying all Steph’s rules from before, you can magically reproduce with me. Let’s not waste this bit of magical author-intervention-for-more-publicity and let’s have some DAMN DEMON BABIES, dammit.
EDWARD: (sparkly) OHKAYZ :D
Yeah. That was basically every book for me. I could go on a rant about her loopholes and lack of word-choice and everything, but I feel like I’ve really matured and now me and Steph are on an okay level. So I’m putting this whole thing behind me.
But I’m still totally going to write a better vampire book. BRING IT ON, 2010.

Why 27 Dresses is Just a Metaphor For Life

There is only one chick flick that I have seen over three times. That’s 27 Dresses. The reason why I have seen it that many times is because life should just work out like that, dammit. Every woman should have some attractive cynical man stalk them around, learning about all their little adorable quirks of their personality until said attractive cynical man falls in love with them. Unfortunately, that’s not the way life works. More often than not, it is the blaring irony of that movie that hits people in the face. How poor Katherine Heigl deals with having her super attractive younger sister marry the man she is in love with is beyond me. Plus having the goodness to coordinate her entire wedding? Well, that’s just wrong. Only Jesus can do that. But, Katherine Heigl’s Character, I blame you. When the movie gods send you an attractive cynical man who just HAPPENS to show up in every scene with a glowing smile and beautiful sea-green eyes, it’s kind of your problem if you keep wanting to stalk your boring-as-potato-soup boss who only has eyes for your ditz younger sister. That, dear Katherine Heigl’s Character, is a sign that he’s not as deep as he seems. You must never abuse the power of a man-stalker, even if he’s only stalking you at first for your outlandish dresses. This could serve to be a cleverly hidden and highly exaggerated metaphor for us all. Take what you can get, girlies, because it ain’t gonna get much better.

Awkwardsauce and Spaghetti

So Prom was today, and from eight in the morning to two in the morning the next day, I was on the move. Woke up, painted toenails to match my definitely Les Mis-inspired Red and Black prom theme, went to KK’s without ANY makeup on (apparently I look the same. Huh.) in Philip who conveniently matched my toenails, drove Jenny to the Salon Vole (running a red light…eh heh) where we proceeded to be prodded and poked by frowning super-tan L.A Barbie dolls who told both me and Jenny that we had terrible skin. Because of this, let me relay what happened:

LA. BARBIE: (frowning. This pulls the corner of her super-masky face down, giving it the appearance of melted plastic) (chewing bubble gum with New York accent) Honey, you’ve got terrible skin. I can’t put foundation on it or you’ll cake. CLOSE YOUR MOUTH
RACHAEL: (doesn’t have time to close mouth and is therefore sprayed in mouth by huge, ominous spray-can thing busily being wielded by L.A. Barbie) Mmmmphhh!!
LA. BARBIE: (Brandishes powder and airbrushy tool, spraying in huge quantities) I told you, foundation would make you cake up. (Holds finger on nozzle for a full minute) *SPPPRRRRTTTT*
RACHAEL: (Totters back over to seat, entirely submerged in airspray-skin stuff) I feel like a cupcake.



Anyway, after that loveliness was done, said airspray thing in slightly different colour was applied to my hair, which I basically chose as my normal hair, just professionally curly instead of super-Froseph9 hillbilly curls. This held it in place like a helmet, and I was really tempted to sing Hairspray songs. After Mrs. Warkow forked up a humongous sum of dough for all that, me, Jenny and KK walked back out, slightly stiff, into the actual sunlight instead of the supremely fake world of the cool black floor, gay guys in black skinny ties with spiky faux-hawks, and chill pop-jazz music without words. Driving back was fun, I definitely had some road rage (That’s an understatement…someone wanted to park in the spot I had territorially claimed, so I screamed, “OH NO YOU DON’T, BITCH!” and reversed wildly, leaving Jenny in nervous giggles) and we went home ‘the scenic way’, which we all know is just another word for ‘the way that we go when Rachael drives the wrong way, totally convinced it’s the right way to Jenny’s house, and they’re actually heading towards Michigan’.
Part 2: Drive home with 25 miles to empty to get money for gas, food, and boutonniere (which, in fancy terms, means ‘eight-dollar-man-corsage’) and drag complaining sister to the gas station with me because they scare me. Man is that woman critical. At least I’m creatively critical; she couldn’t stop complaining about my driving. I’ll go like three miles over the speed limit and she’s contemplating calling the police. But at the gas station, she actually deserved to critique me: I paid in advance for 30 dollars worth of gas for ‘pump 6’, the pump I was parked at. Little did I know I was actually parked at pump 8 and would have to go all the way around to the other side to get gas. However, I stood at pump 8 trying to pump gas into my car for ten minutes, without success, and any hooligan could have come along and stolen the gas waiting patiently at pump 6. When I finally realized my mistake (and much bent-over swearing ensued) I got back in the car, and puzzled as to how to get into pump 6, since the side the gas nozzle was on on my car was on the opposite side at this pump. My brilliant plan was to do a three-point turn in reverse into the pump, though there were cars all around me. IT WAS LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF THE MATRIX, I TELL YOU. Only it didn’t look as cool and it took like three more movies to complete. I finally squeezed into the spot and then had problems telling when to stop the gas. Helpfully, this sketchy old man in a wifebeater with a fisherman’s hat with pins in it and a white beard told me when to stop, then proceeded to chat pleasantly about my car, even though by now I’d been at the gas station for thirty-five minutes and was hell-of-a-late to pick up my boutonniere. My sister by now was entirely enraged at my crappy driving so I had to buy her a candy bar to get her to shut up. Then, I realized I hadn’t eaten and I was in a grocery store with tons of money and I could buy ANYTHING I WANTED FOR LUNCH. It was AMAZING. I ended up only buying a little can of fresh tomato basil soup and some mango Snapple, but it was the exhilaration of freedom, dammit.

((PROM PROM PROM PROM PROM))

and then it was over.

ANTICLIMATIC? NOT AT ALL.

Why Nicholas Cage is Like Jesus: a Portillo's Story

I must work at Portillo’s. It is AMAZING. They get to wear these swanky-ass outfits with red ties, striped aprons, and black newsboy caps. They look like this:



Also, they have to RHYME when they send out orders. Like, ‘Fifty-nine, your order is fine’ and ‘One-seventy-six, your order is fixed’. What kind of person DOESN’T want those fringe benefits? Plus, it’s a steady job instead of I-work-tech-but-am-paid-only-occasionally-since-tech-is-the-last-legal-form-of-slave-labour. I mean, I love my job, but only the creative parts of it, like building sets and mixing sound. Hand me a box of cords and I couldn’t tell cables apart from jump-ropes.

Another pressing matter, however, is that Portillo’s is slowly giving me diabetes. Now, when I was a wee child at the beginning of this year, They (The Doctahs) couldn’t figure out why I was anemic and having all sorts of weird health problems. Here is an illustration for you:
DOCTOR: Well, how do you eat?
ME: I’m a vegetarian. And also I exercise three times a week. And I have been on cross country and soccer since last year.
DOCTOR: Hmmm. (Makes official doctor-y notes)
DOCTOR: (Does official doctor-y tapdance) Well, it appears you have diabetes. GOOD LUCK AND GOD BLESS.
ME: WHAAAT? That makes a hell of no sense.
So my mom took to it like white on rice, saying how, if I exercised every day, I MIGHT not die. No, I remember having this conversation in the car when I was sobbing hysterically over the irony of this. She was turning left (I hate left turns) when she told me that I could save myself only if I started eating right NOW. And by ‘eating right’, she meant ‘cutting everything that I ate that was bread-related or sugar-related out of my diet, leaving me with canned pears (for dessert), carefully monitored cheese slices, or apples as a daily meal.’ I also had to run EVERY DAY, regardless of school. That was the most hellish week of my life. I know Irony is going to take this and run, but I’d rather die fat and happy than fat and in despair over stupid badly-mistaken doctor diagnoses.
Luckily, it’s summer, and since it’s summer, I’ve had ice cream every day, and Portillo’s TWICE this week. You see, having a car and a job automatically translates to ‘Rachael-Happy-Meal-Time’ since we never have any food. I live in a house where we once contemplated feeding the cats ice cubes since we had nothing else. So here I go, happily gorging myself, just to play up to the irony god’s needs.

Nicholas Cage and Jesus are simultaneous sometimes. The guy just doesn’t know he’s allowed to play other characters. I mean seriously, describing him is basically MONOTONE SAVEY AWESOME MAN WITH BADLY DISGUISED RECEDING HAIR WHO CAN TELL THE FUTURE WHILE BLOWING UP THINGS WITH FIRE AND SAVING THE TREASURE WITH HIS SORCERER TREASURE POWERS ON HIS BADASS MOTOR BIKE WHOA!. If that isn’t a description of Jesus, let me know.

That Day When Moses Forgot To Part The Red Sea and the Ark Was Late By Like 40,000 Years

Well, I had to make it to school today just so I could park in my damn senior/staff parking spot, which was *only* for today, and to hell if five-foot water, driving rain, and yelling policemen with flares would stop me. So, basically, I owe getting to school to my boss/newly dubbed new tech leader man either way, because he inspired me by giving me a parking spot for the day and also he was the one who told me the name of Western Avenue, which is the road I took to school. This last sentence does not actually do the two and a half hours in the car I spent today justice, so, for your convenience, here’s a small screenplay.
RACHAEL: (singing along to les mis, but slowly getting quieter and angrier as time passes):Okay, all those exits are blocked, and THAT one has a submerged vehicle in it, sooooo we’ll save it for last. WHOS’ UP FOR NORTH CHICAGO??!
SISTER: We’re both gonna die.
RACHAEL: (laughing maniacally) Nonsense!!! Who said we’re gonna die?? A couple super deep puddles that come up to the bottom of my windows couldn’t possibly hurt anything!! And all the ambulances must be on their way to tea parties or something. And the fogged up windshield is…pretty?
SISTER:…(in shock) We’re gonna die. (Sit in silence, listening to now out of place Les Mis music)
RACHAEL: (thirty minutes later)(sweat drop rolls slowly down side of face)(singing): a…little fall of rain…can…hardly…hurt us now…..?
SISTER: Thassit. I’M ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS
RACHAEL: NOOO IMMA RESPONSIBLE ADULT DAMMIT
(After phone call made to very angry mom, with profanities on top)
MOM: RACHAEL PARK THE CAR.
RACHAEL(dramatic hair fling) BUT MOMMY NO! I CAN’T!! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET ANYWHERE????!
SISTER: We’re all gonna die.
RACHAEL: (cackling with hysterical laughter) OH EM JEEZUS I KNOW THIS ROAD!!!! *les mis tune* I’VE SEEN THIS FACE BEFORE….
WESTERN AVENUE: After all the time you spent driving through Lake Bluff, North Chicago, and the Back Roads, I am conveniently not flooded!!!
MOM: (deep menacing voice) YOU’LL NEVER MAKE IT, YOU FAILURE!!! HAAHAHAHAA
RACHAEL: (brandishing Super Driver cape and singing Les Mis still) I KNOW MY WAAAAY ARROUUUNNNDD!!!!! *reaches school, egg-rolls in and collapses in theatre*
So yeah. That was generally part of a day that didn’t get much better. Driving was probably the highlight.

That Mandatory First Blog Post About Nothing

Tech-no-logically challenged.

Techknowledgeically challenged.

Technically challenged (skip out on the 'knowledge' part all the way.)

THESE are clever. I should have used them to name this blog. They actually have something to do with my life, which, I think, is what you're supposed to post about on a blog. But I have to stay true to the title 'She Has It Together', which some other clever person already took. So now I'm stuck with shehasittogetherblog.blogspot.com, which says 'blog' in it twice just in case you forget that this is, in fact, a blog. Now I've said that word so many times I've forgotten whether or not it's really a word...anyway, my life. This should be an account of my life/job/what I want to do when I'm a big strong adult, which is little-known about to people who watch plays and musicals and...well...unheard of anywhere else. Let me tell you about a basic day of mine:

Enter ACTOR. ACTOR is usually tall, tan, and good-looking, and importantly, oozing with charisma. The ACTOR cannot take shit from anyone but can give plenty himself. ACTORS commonly come in many varieties, whether they be the friendly chill ones that know how to actually take a table off the set or the scary old ones that have been acting since the womb. A sub-variety of this is the DANCER: usually an incredibly willowy blonde girl who has, also, been dancing since the womb, or at least age four, which is what their moms tell other blonde-and-matching-yoga-pantsuit moms who drop off their kids at Gorton in a minivan Lexus on Tuesdays. The DANCER too is incredibly charismatic, and, when dancing majestically though fog and charmed by dark and mysterious lighting (not on their own grace, by the way) usually look like a piece of art.
Then. Enter the TECHIE. The TECHIE will probably miss her entrance because she is currently fast asleep up in the dark second floor of the house theatre, with her face stuck to a spotlight and snoring. She sports a sloppy ponytail, jeans, and Converse, which she has propped up on a precarious metal bar. This, from experience, is not a good position to sleep in. It gives people chances to scare the hell out of you. The TECHIE, mind you, does not look like a piece of art.

Yup. You probably guessed it. The TECHIE is me.

So that's what I do. I run around, makesure actors have it all together, run spotlights, design sets, stick pieces of tape to people's necks to keep their microphones on, paint floors, get yelled at, and clean stuff. More to come on this job: it's hard to describe at first glance. Besides, this post isn't actually about my job, it's that first really awkward post you've got to get out of the way when you're a teen and you've started a blog, even though they're definitely old and no one really reads them anyway.
^IRONIC CLIFFHANGER OF DOOM.