Hello fellow failures, halfpenny here, breaking radio silence.

This will be the first thing I’ve written for public consumption in a solid six months. After graduation, I had plans. Brilliant, shiny plans about getting off the Internet, getting a steady job, a respectable apartment, and a boyfriend who’d never heard of Battlestar Galactica. Gorgeous, well-intentioned plans that failed rather spectacularly if I do say so myself. I’m living at home, working temp gigs at the mall, and the only other warm body sharing my childhood bed is my cat. And here I am, back on the Internet, blogging about being a full-fledged member of Generation Fail. There’s a saying about ways to make God laugh and plans. All I’ve got to say is that God must be rolled on the Him-damn floor right about now.

Due to stringent privacy waivers I’ve signed at both my places of employment, I’m not allowed to specify where I’m working or my personal opinions on their products and/or business practices, which is a darn shame because I adore both companies and their products. Suffice to say you’ve probably gotten a gift from one or both places. My coworkers are pretty great across the board, a first for retailing, but I’m still at a we-have-a-great-time-at-work friend stage. I’ve yet to segue cleanly to a hey-let’s-get-drinks-or-catch-a-movie phase. All in all, it’s just me and my cat, my mother and the lingering deadlines for my grad school applications.

Yes, grad school, against which I ranted and railed. The very thought of which made tiny little bubbles form at the corner of my mouth. I swore up and down on a stack of the holy scripture of your choice that I’d never go. And then I found myself in my mother’s kitchen, trying to make risotto from scratch having blown a full week’s salary on premium imported Arborio rice and other ingredients. With my rice on fire.

Well, not on fire. Not exactly. More like vacilating between being totally undercooked (due to my famous ability to misread recipes amounts) and scorched (due to my famous ability to overcompensate in an attempt to correct).  And as I attempted to salvage my dinner/peace offering to my mom/show of independence, to quote the poet Bradshaw, I couldn’t help but wonder: was this it? Was I going to be stuck in my mom’s house, ruining perfectly fine sun-dried tomatoes, working at the mall I hung out at in high school for the rest of forever? What I needed was a ticket out, a reason to jet halfway across the continent and set up shop somewhere else. Somewhere where I could leave clothes on my floor without comment and play my punk-pop as loud as I wanted.

The next morning I started my first application. O Canada, here I come!