Where... Wha...

And thus, without anything better to do with her life, J-Mil has once again resorted to blogging.

FEEL MY WRATH.

I said wrath, damn it, WRATH!

Except now I have shit to discuss at ye old Scuttlebutt, as opposed to every other post you've so diligently read on this page. Things have changed. I'm a different person. I have a new apartment. I have new jobs. (the shock-factor there is supposed to be the fact that I have a job.) I have a couple new pairs of underwear with animal prints on them. Shit's happening, fo real.

I'm spending the summer living just a hop, skip and a jump from campus instead of at home. This is the first time since Prague that I've lived in an apartment with a whole bushel of roommates. Now, in Praha (sorry, a little inside I know) it was a complete luck of the draw (plus a little discretion from the housing coordinators) as to who would be my roommate/apart-mates. Luckily, my roommate in Prague was an Irish booze fiend with an affinity for Futurama. As a nerdy faux-intellectual with an affinity for Futurama, things couldn't have worked out better. And my other housemates were pretty cool, too.

But now I'm living with pre-established friends.

Or whichever appropriate meme just became popular.

We were already comfortable with each other when we lived a 5-minute walk apart. We were already comfortable when we decided to eat every meal together. We were already comfortable when we passed out drunk on each other's floors. We were already comfortable when we puked on each other's floors. We were already comfortable when we fucked each other's floors.*

*Only YOU can stop domestic carpet abuse

So imagine our comfort levels by this point. We have been living in the same home-- which may be defined as a one-stop shop for eating, sleeping, shitting and sitting. Do you have any idea what this means? Those four things each comprise 25% of what I do with my life.

We have gotten ridiculously comfortable. Like, unprecedentedly (spell check's giving me the 'okay') comfortable. I know my roommates' eating habits. I know their showering schedule. I know how long they've been sitting drunk outside on the back porch. I know when it's time for Nicole to clean the cat shit out of the litter box. In what other circumstance would I  EVER know that?!

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy it. I fuckin' love these kids. Why else would I choose to live with them? But man... sometimes you get uncomfortably comfortable. Like, bowel-movement-familiarity comfortable.

100th poop joke! Everybody DAAAAANCE!

p.s. I don't watch South Park

Now on to the other quirky trials and tribulations of my life.

I currently have one job and one internship. I had another job working as a freelance writer until I got sacked because I had one other job and one other internship and therefore not enough time to dedicate to said other freelance writing job. Shit happens. Did you not just see the Hankey the Christmas Poo picture I posted?

Job: teaching grammar/vocab/math to 1st-5th graders at a summer learning program

Internship: shooting/editing video content for an "up and coming" (to be read with kind-of-bitchy sarcasm) L.A. media/lifestyle website.

I don't get paid at my internship. I drive an hour to North Hollywood a few times a week and live the high life chopping up Final Cut timelines all day. I pretend to hate it except that I actually love it. A few weeks ago we were shooting stuff for my friend who has a pretty awesome blog about food trucks. What were we doing? Filming her at these various food trucks. Did we get a shit ton of free food? Yes, yes we did. Was it delicious? Yes, yes it was. The things these people come up with...seriously, sushi burritos?!

And yes, that is a samurai wearing a sombrero.

So that part of the job's been pretty cool. And I've discovered I really like editing. It's like putting a puzzle together, except some artsy-fartsy experimental-education teacher gave them to you saying, "Put them together however you want." So I make videos. Mostly web shorts and spotlights and things like that.

As for the "paying" (to be read with unapologetically-bitchy sarcasm) job, I like it. I like kids. Except I hate them.

I like the idea of kids. I've determined that instead of being a parent, I'd much rather just rent some children and the second they feel the need to rebel against authority I'll just return them to the Rent-A-Kid shack or exchange them for another one. Now, this is a little hypocritical of me since I was often the obnoxious class clown in my youth ((says the old and wizened 21-year-old)), but Jesus W. Christ, I don't remember it ever being acceptable to get up and lie on the floor in the middle of class. That's what these kids do! And yell made-up words, and break their pencils so they can leave the room to sharpen them, and argue over whether so-and-so's a boy or a girl, and the list goes on. Kids are little shits.

But then they tell you you're their favorite teacher and somehow that cancels it all out. I work at THE shittiest learning program in all of [insert small city in Southern Orange County], but to see them absorb anything that we go over in class-- and enjoy it, sometimes-- is fairly rewarding.

[sentimental music]

This blog is long enough; bless your soul if you've made it this far-- and with so few pictures! So I'll delve into the nitty-gritty of working as a teacher some other time. Because if I've learned anything, it's that the pain and misery of others is fodder for entertainment. For now, I'll leave you with this bit of wisdom:

Never eat raspberries.