All-star jobs. Some of our best and brightest in fact. Hurry before they're gone!
I'm all for being employed, but seriously, if Venture Capital Associate is "in fact" the best and brightest they can come up with, I'll take my chances on poverty. Maybe it's just me, but the idea of competing for a position wherein my chief responsibility would be to manage assets alternatively makes me want to suck my eyes out.
Showing posts with label quarter life crisis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label quarter life crisis. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Is it creativity or is it crack?
It's kids like this one that actually make poppin' one out seem like an OK idea.
Friday, January 9, 2009
I do love Fun Dip and Cherry Coke...
I wish LFO had written a song about liking girls who wear Urban Outfitters. I think that would've sent a better message to the country at large. And it probably would've boosted my self-esteem at an important developmental juncture.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
If I had live blogged my trip to airport this morning, it would've read something like this:
[For the busiest/most impatient of my dedicated readers, the really exciting stuff starts around 5:43am.]
5:10am – Wakey wakey, eggs and bac-ey!
5:18am – Ok, if I put the two makeup cases in my suitcase it makes the carry-on too fat for the overheard storage bins. But if I put the two makeup cases in my purse, they make the purse super wide and unwieldy. Even if I wanted to abandon one, I’d have to go through each of them individually and reorganize what to take and what to leave and who has time for that? When did I become the type of girl that can't fit all her makeup into one damn case? Wait, where did my cute new hat go? I really wanted to take that hat! It’s actually cool, and I like looking cool when confronted with high school classmates. Oh, hey, if I shift my boots this way then there’s more room for the makeup cases…
5:25am – Alright, need to leave in 2 minutes, everything’s good. I’m dressed, deodored, my suitcase is shut (and of the appropriate storable size), boots are on (should I really take the brown ones? I’m wearing a black cuddly sweatshirt for the flight… do they look stupid together? Well, I should take them, they’re the only cute brown winter shoes I have, really. Oh, and this way I can take my green skirt! Ugh, I hate myself…), computer in bag, iPod charged… sweet!
5:34am – Where the hell is that hat? At this point I’m more concerned that I’ve lost it altogether than I am about bringing it. Last seen on my head on the way home from work last night. Hmm, not on the table or the kitchen counter. Oh I ordered Indian last night. But I wasn’t wearing the hat when it came. What if it’s in the trash can? Checking the trash can… why would it be in the trash can?? Oh god, late now, forget the stupid hat! It’s too trendy anyway, you hate that.
5:37am – Great, out the door. Didn’t slip on the stairs, that was good. Leaving the building, I’m surprised by a woman who’s walking super close the fence outside my apartment building. She’s clinging to it and warns me that the sidewalk is super slippery. She’s pretty right. Basically the entirety of Brooklyn is covered in a minuscule, invisible, but absolutely effective layer of ice. Oh yeah, and those brown boots I insisted on wearing? No traction. At all.
5:38am – Reach my corner; contemplate going into the WaMu to put on better walking shoes. Abandon idea… only other shoes I brought are heals and my Vans, which aren’t that much better in traction terms. Girls are dumb. Girls who wear Vans are worse.
5:43am – Woman starts yelling for help across the street. Uh oh. Stupidly respond to pleas for assistance from what appears to be a crazy bag lady. “But it’s Christmas Eve, you have to help her.” “But she’s a crazy bag lady, and I’m running a bit behind schedule.” “You might be a bag lady one day.” “Yeah, and I’ll have the good sense not to be outside in the winter at 5am; that’s no condition for… wandering around with bags.” “Well that’s irrelevant anyway, you’ve responded to her. You’re engaged now; you know you’ll feel way awkward if you ignore her.” “Fuckity.”
5:44am – Help crazy bag lady walk a few blocks on the ice mass that is Brooklyn, NY after she is nearly hit by a van (as people who are standing in the middle of the street making no attempt to move out of the path of oncoming traffic might expect to be, but logic is apparently totally irrelevant in the real world). Learn that crazy bag lady is not actually a crazy bag lady, but is in fact a 55-year-old woman who is being driven crazy by her mother who lives with her and hoards things. She tells me she was out this morning to throw some of those hoarded things away, since this is the only hour she can get away with such actions. I don’t feel the need to ask the crazy lady why a simple action like throwing something away would require walking any more than a few steps away from ones apartment, thus necessitating assistance on the several blocks slide home. I’m just happy she feels the urge to get breakfast now; because that’s normal.
5:54am – Finally arrive at subway station… wanted to be here at 5:45am latest so I could catch the 6:30am bus to Newark. Oh well, the train will probably be here soon.
6:10am – Train arrives. Lazy jerk. Sit next to lots of guys who look like they work in construction or some other industry that actually requires labor whilst at work. The smell of sawdust and/or dried concrete powder permeates the subway car. Think about how I probably get paid more for far less real work. Feel guilty. World kinda sucks and is unjust and stuff. Oooh, “Jump” comes on the iPod.
6:35am – Emerge from the subway depressingly close (but just too late) to the bus’s scheduled departure time. Do some mental calculations… “if you catch the 7am bus, you’ll be cutting it close but you should be at Newark by 7:30ish, and that’ll give you like half an hour to get through security and get to the gate for boarding, which should start around 7:55.” Cool.
7:12am – WHERE IS THE BUS?
7:17am – Ok, everything is fine… I’ll only have about 10 minutes to get through security, but it’s fine. Everyone’s on the bus, we’re on the way. We’re even hitting the lights pretty nicely.
7:45am – OH MY GOD WHY ARE WE STILL IN MANHATTAN? We have been stuck at the same intersection for almost 20 minutes and the driver WILL NOT think about an alternate route EVEN THOUGH WE CAN SEE A RAMP OF BUSES MOVING DECENTLY 50 YARDS AWAY. Finally a couple passive aggressive women bitch and moan enough for the driver to UM, DO HER JOB AND DRIVE. Y’know, that whole way with dealing with life typically annoys me, but it gets shit done. I can’t believe I'm gonna miss Christmas because I stopped to help that crazy bag lady. Stupid.
7:55am – On the phone with Dad, like 13 Delta agents and getting a little hysterical about how I’m going to be calm no matter what. My flight is boarding now and we’re still 30 minutes from Newark. Delta says there are no seats available on any flights out of Newark today and I’ll have to go tomorrow morning instead. I ask if they can check other airlines; they claim they can’t but I know they used to. Assholes. Dad finds out there’s a flight going out of LaGuardia at 4pm. Call Delta back and reserve a spot on that flight since I’ve probably missed mine. They tell me to call back when I’m sure the flight has left Newark so they can edit my reservation. Because I, on the bus, have access to Delta flight information and can tell when the flight has left. OH WAIT, I’M A PERSON, THEY’RE DELTA AND HAVE ACCESS TO THAT SORT OF INFORMATION.
8:25am – Arrive at Newark Airport, Terminal B. Thank the driver when she unloads my bag from under the bus. Feel pretty good about myself for being polite since she’s the reason (along with my good samaritan-ness) I’ve missed my plane and not might make it back home for Christmas. Feel defeated by life, and think karma is a sham.
8:26am – Enter terminal and look for departure screen to verify that the plane has departed so I can confirm my new flight. Flight #847 to Atlanta… BOARDING! Look around frantically for some Delta rep to let them know I’m here and that I’m coming and that I will do all sorts of degrading things if they’ll just please please please hold the plane. Only 2 Delta people are around and they’re both helping people… there’s a line… I could maybe cut in front and just ask what I should do… it’s the holidays, which means people will either be generous and ok with that or be totally stressed out and will yell at me and make me cry… shuffle back and forth, confused… accidentally get in the AirFrance line… start running towards Security (which I’m sure is a smart thing to do in a period of heightened alert).
8:28am – The guy who checks your ID and Boarding Pass is taking LITERALLY FOREVER with some foreign family. Let them through! They’re a nice family of 7! They’re from Europe! Two of them are old! Dah!
8:35am – Make it through Security and sprint towards the gate, sans shoes. Think fleetingly about how I could compare myself to Shoeless Joe Jackson, then realize that I'm basing that comparison solely on the commonality of being shoeless; consider reading up a little more on baseball, but conclude that I really don't care enough to bother. First automatic sidewalk is broken. Second one works. Hop on and continue running. Scare young child on end of sidewalk… she was keeping 20 feet back from her mom, as kids do sometimes… only then she sees a crazy lady sprinting towards her (still no shoes)... desire for independence crushed, she rushes to her mother's side. Oh well, I’m teaching her to not wander too far. This is Jersey. Shit’s dangerous. Good life lesson.
8:37am – Arrive at gate with another dude who is equally late. We are both overjoyed to learn that the pilots are stuck in traffic on the way from Manhattan (surprise!)… planes can’t leave without them!
9:12am – Did I brush my teeth?
5:10am – Wakey wakey, eggs and bac-ey!
5:18am – Ok, if I put the two makeup cases in my suitcase it makes the carry-on too fat for the overheard storage bins. But if I put the two makeup cases in my purse, they make the purse super wide and unwieldy. Even if I wanted to abandon one, I’d have to go through each of them individually and reorganize what to take and what to leave and who has time for that? When did I become the type of girl that can't fit all her makeup into one damn case? Wait, where did my cute new hat go? I really wanted to take that hat! It’s actually cool, and I like looking cool when confronted with high school classmates. Oh, hey, if I shift my boots this way then there’s more room for the makeup cases…
5:25am – Alright, need to leave in 2 minutes, everything’s good. I’m dressed, deodored, my suitcase is shut (and of the appropriate storable size), boots are on (should I really take the brown ones? I’m wearing a black cuddly sweatshirt for the flight… do they look stupid together? Well, I should take them, they’re the only cute brown winter shoes I have, really. Oh, and this way I can take my green skirt! Ugh, I hate myself…), computer in bag, iPod charged… sweet!
5:34am – Where the hell is that hat? At this point I’m more concerned that I’ve lost it altogether than I am about bringing it. Last seen on my head on the way home from work last night. Hmm, not on the table or the kitchen counter. Oh I ordered Indian last night. But I wasn’t wearing the hat when it came. What if it’s in the trash can? Checking the trash can… why would it be in the trash can?? Oh god, late now, forget the stupid hat! It’s too trendy anyway, you hate that.
5:37am – Great, out the door. Didn’t slip on the stairs, that was good. Leaving the building, I’m surprised by a woman who’s walking super close the fence outside my apartment building. She’s clinging to it and warns me that the sidewalk is super slippery. She’s pretty right. Basically the entirety of Brooklyn is covered in a minuscule, invisible, but absolutely effective layer of ice. Oh yeah, and those brown boots I insisted on wearing? No traction. At all.
5:38am – Reach my corner; contemplate going into the WaMu to put on better walking shoes. Abandon idea… only other shoes I brought are heals and my Vans, which aren’t that much better in traction terms. Girls are dumb. Girls who wear Vans are worse.
5:43am – Woman starts yelling for help across the street. Uh oh. Stupidly respond to pleas for assistance from what appears to be a crazy bag lady. “But it’s Christmas Eve, you have to help her.” “But she’s a crazy bag lady, and I’m running a bit behind schedule.” “You might be a bag lady one day.” “Yeah, and I’ll have the good sense not to be outside in the winter at 5am; that’s no condition for… wandering around with bags.” “Well that’s irrelevant anyway, you’ve responded to her. You’re engaged now; you know you’ll feel way awkward if you ignore her.” “Fuckity.”
5:44am – Help crazy bag lady walk a few blocks on the ice mass that is Brooklyn, NY after she is nearly hit by a van (as people who are standing in the middle of the street making no attempt to move out of the path of oncoming traffic might expect to be, but logic is apparently totally irrelevant in the real world). Learn that crazy bag lady is not actually a crazy bag lady, but is in fact a 55-year-old woman who is being driven crazy by her mother who lives with her and hoards things. She tells me she was out this morning to throw some of those hoarded things away, since this is the only hour she can get away with such actions. I don’t feel the need to ask the crazy lady why a simple action like throwing something away would require walking any more than a few steps away from ones apartment, thus necessitating assistance on the several blocks slide home. I’m just happy she feels the urge to get breakfast now; because that’s normal.
5:54am – Finally arrive at subway station… wanted to be here at 5:45am latest so I could catch the 6:30am bus to Newark. Oh well, the train will probably be here soon.
6:10am – Train arrives. Lazy jerk. Sit next to lots of guys who look like they work in construction or some other industry that actually requires labor whilst at work. The smell of sawdust and/or dried concrete powder permeates the subway car. Think about how I probably get paid more for far less real work. Feel guilty. World kinda sucks and is unjust and stuff. Oooh, “Jump” comes on the iPod.
6:35am – Emerge from the subway depressingly close (but just too late) to the bus’s scheduled departure time. Do some mental calculations… “if you catch the 7am bus, you’ll be cutting it close but you should be at Newark by 7:30ish, and that’ll give you like half an hour to get through security and get to the gate for boarding, which should start around 7:55.” Cool.
7:12am – WHERE IS THE BUS?
7:17am – Ok, everything is fine… I’ll only have about 10 minutes to get through security, but it’s fine. Everyone’s on the bus, we’re on the way. We’re even hitting the lights pretty nicely.
7:45am – OH MY GOD WHY ARE WE STILL IN MANHATTAN? We have been stuck at the same intersection for almost 20 minutes and the driver WILL NOT think about an alternate route EVEN THOUGH WE CAN SEE A RAMP OF BUSES MOVING DECENTLY 50 YARDS AWAY. Finally a couple passive aggressive women bitch and moan enough for the driver to UM, DO HER JOB AND DRIVE. Y’know, that whole way with dealing with life typically annoys me, but it gets shit done. I can’t believe I'm gonna miss Christmas because I stopped to help that crazy bag lady. Stupid.
7:55am – On the phone with Dad, like 13 Delta agents and getting a little hysterical about how I’m going to be calm no matter what. My flight is boarding now and we’re still 30 minutes from Newark. Delta says there are no seats available on any flights out of Newark today and I’ll have to go tomorrow morning instead. I ask if they can check other airlines; they claim they can’t but I know they used to. Assholes. Dad finds out there’s a flight going out of LaGuardia at 4pm. Call Delta back and reserve a spot on that flight since I’ve probably missed mine. They tell me to call back when I’m sure the flight has left Newark so they can edit my reservation. Because I, on the bus, have access to Delta flight information and can tell when the flight has left. OH WAIT, I’M A PERSON, THEY’RE DELTA AND HAVE ACCESS TO THAT SORT OF INFORMATION.
8:25am – Arrive at Newark Airport, Terminal B. Thank the driver when she unloads my bag from under the bus. Feel pretty good about myself for being polite since she’s the reason (along with my good samaritan-ness) I’ve missed my plane and not might make it back home for Christmas. Feel defeated by life, and think karma is a sham.
8:26am – Enter terminal and look for departure screen to verify that the plane has departed so I can confirm my new flight. Flight #847 to Atlanta… BOARDING! Look around frantically for some Delta rep to let them know I’m here and that I’m coming and that I will do all sorts of degrading things if they’ll just please please please hold the plane. Only 2 Delta people are around and they’re both helping people… there’s a line… I could maybe cut in front and just ask what I should do… it’s the holidays, which means people will either be generous and ok with that or be totally stressed out and will yell at me and make me cry… shuffle back and forth, confused… accidentally get in the AirFrance line… start running towards Security (which I’m sure is a smart thing to do in a period of heightened alert).
8:28am – The guy who checks your ID and Boarding Pass is taking LITERALLY FOREVER with some foreign family. Let them through! They’re a nice family of 7! They’re from Europe! Two of them are old! Dah!
8:35am – Make it through Security and sprint towards the gate, sans shoes. Think fleetingly about how I could compare myself to Shoeless Joe Jackson, then realize that I'm basing that comparison solely on the commonality of being shoeless; consider reading up a little more on baseball, but conclude that I really don't care enough to bother. First automatic sidewalk is broken. Second one works. Hop on and continue running. Scare young child on end of sidewalk… she was keeping 20 feet back from her mom, as kids do sometimes… only then she sees a crazy lady sprinting towards her (still no shoes)... desire for independence crushed, she rushes to her mother's side. Oh well, I’m teaching her to not wander too far. This is Jersey. Shit’s dangerous. Good life lesson.
8:37am – Arrive at gate with another dude who is equally late. We are both overjoyed to learn that the pilots are stuck in traffic on the way from Manhattan (surprise!)… planes can’t leave without them!
9:12am – Did I brush my teeth?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A penny for your thoughts? Nay!
At least a quarter! After much urging by ardent supporters and friends bored stiff at their day jobs, here is an update to my quarter life crisis project. For $0.25 in New York City (or its burroughs) you can purchase:
Balls! This particular item is available throughout the metropolitan area in a variety of sizes, colors and levels of elasticity (surprisingly, however, they all seem to come in the exact same shape!). Those pictured here I found especially nice due to the preponderance of orange hues; however, while sizes of available bouncy balls around town did vary, I did note a decided decrease in average size as compared to my childhood memories of the majority of bouncy balls encountered. Although, again, this might have been symptomatic of my formerly tiny hands.
You can say a lot of things about the Lower East Side. But why waste energy or time talking about a place where $0.25 can't even buy you a properly constructed extra large plastic die? (For those of you not in the know, a die's opposing sides are suppose to add up to 7... spot the error if you dare.)
What's there to do in Douglaston, Queens, you ask? Well lots probably, but finding a decent engagement ring for a quarter dollar certainly isn't a viable way to pass the time in this upper crust section of Kevin James' fiefdom. Is it so much to ask that the plastic jewel be auto-hot glued in the center of the faux-gold ring? Romance is dead. But I digress.
Monkey, see?! In Brooklyn (clearly the best of the suburroughs, despite its commute that makes me want to strangle myself and those bunched around me on the subway with my purse straps), you can buy a friggin' monkey for 25 cents! Now that, my friends, is an improvement from the days of yore. Monkeys were definitely not available for purchase in the small town in Georgia where my tenderest years were spent. Although I'm pretty sure I could legally rent a tractor.
I cheated a little on this one, I will admit. I broke a rule I had held to steadfastly (miso soup arguments aside) and spent TWO quarters on this little find. But I couldn't help myself. I was on the UWS... things are expensive there... and I was drinking. The best part about this purchase was that this little plumber dude is actually just one in a set of ten "white trash" figurines. I want to meet the person who is actually trying to amass the collection in its entirety. "Come on, please let it be Drunk Truck Driver, please oh please!" *Clink, clink, crank, sssss, thmp* "STD-infested diner lady again? That makes 7! Son of a-." I think we'd be friends. And I think s/he'd be an ibanker.
Balls! This particular item is available throughout the metropolitan area in a variety of sizes, colors and levels of elasticity (surprisingly, however, they all seem to come in the exact same shape!). Those pictured here I found especially nice due to the preponderance of orange hues; however, while sizes of available bouncy balls around town did vary, I did note a decided decrease in average size as compared to my childhood memories of the majority of bouncy balls encountered. Although, again, this might have been symptomatic of my formerly tiny hands.
You can say a lot of things about the Lower East Side. But why waste energy or time talking about a place where $0.25 can't even buy you a properly constructed extra large plastic die? (For those of you not in the know, a die's opposing sides are suppose to add up to 7... spot the error if you dare.)
What's there to do in Douglaston, Queens, you ask? Well lots probably, but finding a decent engagement ring for a quarter dollar certainly isn't a viable way to pass the time in this upper crust section of Kevin James' fiefdom. Is it so much to ask that the plastic jewel be auto-hot glued in the center of the faux-gold ring? Romance is dead. But I digress.
Monkey, see?! In Brooklyn (clearly the best of the suburroughs, despite its commute that makes me want to strangle myself and those bunched around me on the subway with my purse straps), you can buy a friggin' monkey for 25 cents! Now that, my friends, is an improvement from the days of yore. Monkeys were definitely not available for purchase in the small town in Georgia where my tenderest years were spent. Although I'm pretty sure I could legally rent a tractor.
I cheated a little on this one, I will admit. I broke a rule I had held to steadfastly (miso soup arguments aside) and spent TWO quarters on this little find. But I couldn't help myself. I was on the UWS... things are expensive there... and I was drinking. The best part about this purchase was that this little plumber dude is actually just one in a set of ten "white trash" figurines. I want to meet the person who is actually trying to amass the collection in its entirety. "Come on, please let it be Drunk Truck Driver, please oh please!" *Clink, clink, crank, sssss, thmp* "STD-infested diner lady again? That makes 7! Son of a-." I think we'd be friends. And I think s/he'd be an ibanker.
Friday, September 5, 2008
My project needed kelp
So today I was going to use a portion of my lunch break to find a 25 cent treat in the area around my office on 59th and Lex. I was very excited about this, primarily because I tend to crave the impossible. And finding a reasonably priced item in Midtown East is about as feasible as resolving the "who's the better superhero, Batman or Superman?" debate. I digress.Alas, as sometimes happens in the fast-paced, action packed world of the litigation paralegal, my lunch was canceled due to a rather sudden deadline, which, if missed, could only result in chaos, fire and brimstone. Fortunately for the world (and unfortunately for those with their money on 9/4/08 in the Armageddon pool at the office), I skipped my lunch break and persisted. The focus, intense; the hilarity, minimal. I trudged on, past my normal frozen yogurt break, through my typical blog perusal and facebook checking hiatus, even beyond my daily quitting time.
Still in my cubicle at 8:30pm, my stomach reminded me that I'm a human and I ordered dinner. There are some slight perks to being a super-paralegal/saving the world from ultimate destruction. One such plus is $10 towards dinner from the firm if one stays two hours past departure time.
Sushi! One seamlessweb.com visit and 30 minutes later, my food had arrived: a spicy tuna roll and a seaweedy tub of miso soup. Total (w/ tip): $10.25. Total (w/ tip) - firm overtime $10 dinner deal: $0.25. That's right, ladies and gents. Bitch got miso soup for a quarter. As evidenced above, the soup was about 20% broth and 80% wakame. So it's possible to get some broth for $0.05 and some seaweed for $0.20. Mom would be so proud. (Note: I am aware that based on the above logic it is equally possible that bitch got a sushi roll for a quarter or gave the delivery dude a 25 cent tip; however, I find the implications of paying $0.25 for raw fish equally disturbing as being a cheap asshole. So I paid 25 cents for miso soup.)
Incidentally, the answer is definitely Batman.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Labor's Sticky.
Purchase #1! Made today (day 'o labor) outside of the Met grocery store in Park Slope. As hoped (who knew the odds, it was a vending machine that distributed random toys!), a sticky green hand!
We outsource sticky hand manufacturing nowadays.
I then got to the playing. When I was little, as I might have mentioned, I would throw sticky hands against car windows. Now, I throw them on Picasso's "Guernica." Movin' on up!
When I was young, I would also gleefully throw sticky hands onto the ceiling, thinking it immense fun to have my parents retrieve a ladder to fetch them back down. My ceiling sticky hand stickage would result in the confiscation of my sticky hands. But it was worth it.
Now that I have to climb to unstick sticky hands from the ceiling myself, I have realized, in retrospect, that I was kind of an asshole.
Purchase #1 in the Amassed Purchases Box (APB).
Some other things that APB stands for:
- Accounting Principles Board (accountants)
- All Points Bulletin (law enforcers)
- Advanced Peripheral Bus (Advanced Microcontroller Bus architects)
- Atrial Premature Beat (abnormal hearts)
- Anti Pass Back (parking management and really lame club bouncers)
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Quarter Life Crisis
As many of my peers are faced with indecision and uncertainty following their graduation from college and entrance into the "real world," quite a few of them find themselves experiencing a "quarter life crisis." This depresses me no end, in part because it means my friends are unhappy and in part because it implies they will all die somewhere around the age of 88-92.
Personally, I anticipate living until the ripe old age of 117 (at which point I plan to OD on heroine), so my quarter life crisis should come around the age of 29.25. As a result, I cannot at all identify with the life-in-transit crisis that my dudes are experiencing. I can, however, reflect on the absurd depreciation of the value of a quarter in our modern economy and the profound sense of loss I feel as a result.
Now, unlike my mother, I cannot recall a time when a quarter could buy you a Coke (and a smile!) and a couple pieces of candy at the corner store. However, I can recall a period in which a quarter could get you a massive handful of candy (although I suppose my hands were smaller), most of which would end up on the ground (damn you, tiny hands!). A quarter was also enough to get a really cool toy, like a bouncy ball infused with glitter, a rubber finger puppet, a temporary tattoo or maybe - just possibly - one of those jelly-like sticky elastic things that you could fling onto the car window on the way home from the grocery store, or maybe at your little brother's face.
Well, America, I may not be having a quarter life crisis myself, but I am worried about the state of a quarter dollar for us all. It is with this in mind that I embark on my newest (and most exciting!) project: $0.25 for 25 days! That's right, you guessed it... we're gonna test how far a quarter can go in the world of today (and in the City of New York, no less). After the purchasing period has ended, the amassed tchotchkes will be analyzed, and we will know better the value of a quarter in the world in which we live relative to, say, a purchase at Starbuck's and, perhaps more importantly, how much better off we were as kids than the runts being raised today.
Personally, I anticipate living until the ripe old age of 117 (at which point I plan to OD on heroine), so my quarter life crisis should come around the age of 29.25. As a result, I cannot at all identify with the life-in-transit crisis that my dudes are experiencing. I can, however, reflect on the absurd depreciation of the value of a quarter in our modern economy and the profound sense of loss I feel as a result.
Now, unlike my mother, I cannot recall a time when a quarter could buy you a Coke (and a smile!) and a couple pieces of candy at the corner store. However, I can recall a period in which a quarter could get you a massive handful of candy (although I suppose my hands were smaller), most of which would end up on the ground (damn you, tiny hands!). A quarter was also enough to get a really cool toy, like a bouncy ball infused with glitter, a rubber finger puppet, a temporary tattoo or maybe - just possibly - one of those jelly-like sticky elastic things that you could fling onto the car window on the way home from the grocery store, or maybe at your little brother's face.
Well, America, I may not be having a quarter life crisis myself, but I am worried about the state of a quarter dollar for us all. It is with this in mind that I embark on my newest (and most exciting!) project: $0.25 for 25 days! That's right, you guessed it... we're gonna test how far a quarter can go in the world of today (and in the City of New York, no less). After the purchasing period has ended, the amassed tchotchkes will be analyzed, and we will know better the value of a quarter in the world in which we live relative to, say, a purchase at Starbuck's and, perhaps more importantly, how much better off we were as kids than the runts being raised today.
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