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So much for "firsts."

Today, I had the misfortune to realize lots of things. I am shell shocked, and rather grim-faced.

Recently I've not been feeling well. If I didn't know better, I'd think that I was pregnant. Mood swings, violent headaches, bouts of vomiting... an overall unease in my stomache--like coked up butterflies are trying to get out of jail free. I had thought this was a phaze--yet another grandeur to add to the list of stunning post-adolescent achievement.

But then today I realized: I'm just really afraid.

Today, I started work as a "consumer sales" rep at Den*Mat. I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. Remember the power mullet I keep mentioning? My boss, a woman named Darlene--who wears Ross suits and tacky heels, who shaves off her natural eyebrows, who has so much pride in her job and her achievements and her department--is the culprit. She has hair the size of a shetland pony perching precariously on her head. In mullet form. Complete with winged tips and spray-gelled bouffant bangs. And she is probably the most hardworking, generous boss I've ever had.

There are 8 people in my department. All are women. The average height is somewhere around 5'3''. The age varries... yet I am the youngest (of course). The average weight of the girls in my department is a smidge over 320 lbs (excluding Darlene, of course, being as light as a feather and twice as wily). Our office smells like toothpasted oatbran. I get the corner desk. I have three "stackables," seven drawers, a phone system more confusing than imaginary numbers, a brand new bottle of white-out, and a shiny computer done in black plastic. What more could a girl ask for?

Oh, I can think of a few things.

All of a sudden I'm stuck. I don't know how this happened. Two years ago, I was a full-time student on scholarship, free tuition. Yet, I still wasn't happy.

Tonight, I watched "48 Hours" Spring Break edition. In my jammies, the remains of a glass of red wine on my bed post--I watched thousands of students with thick middle american accents drain beer bongs, shake their asses, flash their tits. I fucking saw the man (he is all of 27) responsible for the "Girls Gone Wild" series in action. They don't pay the dumb girls; they just have them initial a consent form despite their drunken stupors. This man is a millionare. he has deals with Snoop Dog and ties with the Playboy empire--all because he compiled a tape of stupid girls my age flashing their tits for free. No overhead at all. Pure profit. Imagine the jockeys who get the summer job of finding drunken kentucky girls and taping their tits. Lucky bastards. And these are the girls that are getting an education... On this show of shows, there was a segment where 4 women from the 1991 edition were tracked down. All of these women, looking at their exploits... Drinking a glass of chilled chablis, remembering the good old days... All but one of the women were married. Most have excellent high paying jobs.

I sat astounded tonight watching the tit-flashing girls gone wild. They have marriage, good jobs, and chilled chablis to look forward to. I on the other hand--if i work hard enough--shall receive the prestigious power mullet and rule over a pack of middle-aged, short, overweight women.

It's midnight. I haven't decided if it is possible to turn from a pumpkin to a princess. Just my luck; I'll prolly be stuck as a fucking squash.

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