My university’s all-school formal, the President’s Ball, is next weekend, and I’ve spent most of my week at home trying to find a decent dress. I’ve exhausted all my prom options from high school, couldn’t find anything at Macy’s, and finally enlisted the help of a high school friend, who was gracious enough to lend me a gown. And then I called Houlihan, who is my date, because I thought he would want to coordinate. He doesn’t. 

Me: So the dress is cream tulle with a baby pink lace accent. It’s so beautiful. I want to get married in it.
Houli: That’s great. Also, no one wants to marry you. 
Me: I think if you have a cream-colored or really light pink tie, that would work.
Houli: What do you mean, that would work? And why would I own either of those things?
Me: You know, so we can match.
Houli: I’m wearing a bow tie and a g-string. You can figure out the rest. 
Me: I hate you.  

I think one of the downfalls of living in a democratic, capitalist society founded on the ideals of free speech is that we believe in complete, total egalitarianism of thought. Here’s what I mean: I would never say I’m just as good at figure skating as the next person, or just as good at physics, or just as good at playing the cello. Because that’s simply untrue. Yet, all the time, I hear “My opinions and thoughts are just as valid as anyone else’s.” No, they’re not. Some ideas and opinions are better than others, and some are just plain wrong. After watching the health care debates over the past few months I can only conclude that most Americans encompass the lowest common denominator, and so it’s endlessly frustrating that these people can defend their willful ignorance because they are “entitled to their opinion.” That’s just another way of saying, “I can’t be proven wrong, because this is what I believe with my gut, and you must respect or appreciate that.”  This is why town hall meetings are so infuriating, as are Internet message boards.

I guess my point is that it really makes me upset that Sarah Palin was given $5 million to have a book ghost-written for her, and now she has a platform on which to espouse her moronic ideas. The same goes for Carrie Prijean.

Funny story: this social media woman came to my school last week and gave a lecture about creating an online presence— a “personal brand” or some bullshit like that— and talked about how employers care about what you post and what you project. And I just laughed; I share a name with a young woman best known for dying from a failed exorcism and am basically impossible to Google. I never worry about my “personal brand” or this blog being found because they’re easily lost within an overwhelming sea of information. So you can imagine my embarrassment when I forgot to erase the address of this website from my email signature after confirming our interview a few days ago.  If this is your first time here, welcome.

I understand the importance of making a good impression, of putting a best foot forward. And I do sometimes worry about what will happen after leaving the cocoon of my tiny liberal arts college. But I’m not going to stop living my life— or writing about it— because I want a job.

You’ll probably learn more about me from this blog than you did from my CV, which is fine. You’ve probably figured out some stuff already: like that I love animals and Africa and my family. But also, you know, sometimes I drink. And I spend a lot of time online. And I sleep three hours a night or six hours in the middle of the day. The result of those factors is now what’s on your monitor, and I don’t feel compelled to apologize for any of it. I’m twenty-one and I read and write to proof myself from existential dread because those are the only things I’ve ever done.

I think I’m a good hire. I think I’m a good person, too. And I don’t think typing bad words or posting a picture of myself with my friends at a bar blowing off some steam should affect my chances just because I’m a young person, and the lives of young people are more public and accessible than those of our parents. Do you ever think about what will happen when my generation runs for office and a potentially amazing president or senator has his or her chances killed early on because of one digital image or email? I think about that sometimes, and it scares the hell out of me.

I guess my point is this— keep reading, if you want. It doesn’t matter, because I’ll keep writing. And I’ll be okay if you hire me or if you don’t. So talk to you during our interview next week. I’m looking forward to it.

—Emily
http://emilyrose.tumblr.com

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but the house in which I live is university-owned, and belongs to a series of living units on campus whose sole purpose is to educate my college on pertinent topics and produce campus programming. (ex: There are houses for students concerned with minority issues, environmental issues, religious issues, etc.) The Women’s House (where I live) chiefly tackles feminist and GLBT matters. So we plan Take Back The Night and the Day of Silence, but we also sit around and eat Cheez-Its and talk about people we don’t like. It’s like a sorority house, if my sorority were filled with sassy lesbians who belong to the ACLU. Anyway, next semester we’re short one member, which poses a problem for funding. This is the campus-wide email I wrote which we’re circulating to recruit. The questions represent a cross-section of our thirteen members.

Have you not had sex in ten months?
Do you engage in sex with strangers, on the Internet?
Are you gay?
Do you spend most of your time with the gays?
Do you enjoy clothing-optional environments?
Have you ever choreographed your own dance to a Lady Gaga song?
Is your life pathetic, despite your awesome personality?
If so, the Women’s House may be for you!
Help improve the safety and status of Ohio Wesleyan women while laying around on our oversized couches and eating baked goods! Take endless Facebook quizzes and compare them to those of your housemates! Make a difference while avoiding any type of productive schoolwork!
Stop by and pick up an application today! Interviews to follow. Try not to be a dick (though you’re allowed to have one).

I really can’t wait to see who applies.

True story: I don’t remember most of last night, but I did wake to this poem, written entirely in iambic pentameter, on a word document on my Macbook. (I think this is because I’ve been reading a lot of Yeats lately, but he mostly does iambic pentameter about Irish nationalism, not awkward encounters at dive bars.) It’s apparently an account of what I did last night, written probably around 3 a.m.

Laura claims she just needs to get laid.
To her, Sam I. seems the best candidate.
“He’s a freshman, Laura. And gay,” I say,
Her reply:  “Lowered those standards long ago.”

We arrive, all I do is scan the bar.
We’re here for my erstwhile boyfriend Adam,
Who sent this text fifteen minutes ago:
“Hey you. Beer pong at Backstretch. Come over.”

Laura doesn’t know this, she just thinks that
I wanted to get out of the house.
Which is simply false; I really miss him.
After a quick search, our eyes finally meet—

Adam plays beer pong with his new girl.
She’s a sober six, maybe drunk seven.
“Woof,” I want to say, and pour my beer down
His stupid blue shirt he looks so good in.

Laura gets mad, and then I feel guilty.
“I wish you could see yourself the way that
I see you, Emmy. Please stop this now.
We accept the love we think we deserve.”

Which is ironic, considering Sam.
We leave the bar to go dance at Clancey’s.
It’s chock full of townies and dumb freshmen,
But we groove to Billy Joel with gay dudes.

And all seems a little right in the world.
At the gyro place after closing time,
Laura wipes tzatziki sauce off her hands
And says “I love and hate how weird this was.”