Sometimes, Versatility can be a Hindrance.

Before you claw at my face in your post-modernist knee-jerk reaction and accuse me of not being an advocate of progressive thought, hear me out.

Have you ever thought, perhaps, just for a teeny second, that things would be easier if you didn't have so many choices? I mean, think about it. We can easily spend 10 minutes in the toothpaste aisle deciding between a gel or a paste, one with whitener with extra fluoride, or one that whitens and tastes like baking soda, one that is green, or white, spearmint, wintermint, and some random berry flavor, and either a plastic tube, or a pump. All for a two minute job in the morning and evening.

Or what about body wash? Toothbrushes? (Soft, medium, hard bristles? Ergonomic grip for those with carpal tunnel?) Razors? Canned vegetables? *sigh* Don't get me started.

But I'm not talking about the usually daunting task of grocery shopping for the overly cerebral (like me), I'm actually only referring to my own abilities. Here's what I mean:

I started out going to UofM auditioning for Musical Theatre. When that didn't pan out, I thought about Journalism. I left the school, and considered becoming a Paralegal, and a Private Investigator. I joined bands to become a Rock Star. I began reading up on Technology and considered a career in IT. I began teaching myself a programming language and messed around with computers. I considered the CIA for 3 years in high school. I decided on becoming a writer about 2 years ago, all the while looking up Interior Design and Event Planning. I thought about Culinary School as well, and am strongly considering getting a Masters in Library Science.

And now, here I am, reconsidering again. For... (drumroll please)... Advertising. You know, copywriting, mostly, but being the brainchild behind the successful implementation of a brand or cause in general. (It didn't come out of nowhere, Advertising has always been a possibility with me, I just didn't think I could cut it)

Now, I know everyone goes through these phases of looking at the possibilities, but aren't those desires supposed to fade away when you hone in on something that you know works for you? I mean, even just a little bit?

I was reading up on brain dominance, and remembered the quiz I took on FB that said that I had a balanced brain (Now, it is by no means a reliable source to cite, but, well, this is a blog. So biased writing calls for unreliable sources.). Now this sounds great, right? It means, I have the ability to solve problems using both hemispheres of my brain making me that much more creative during the process. However, it can make me quite indecisive, especially in the realm of choosing a career, because I am good at so many things...or at least, have a strong interest in so many things. It makes total sense!

So my problem is this: I really really want to be an author/singer/musician/private investigator/librarian/computer genius/scientist/dancer/copywriter. And anthropologist. And none of these wants have lessened, or died down for another to shine in any way. And for me to feel truly happy, I want/need all or most of these things to be happening in my life, because I have a constant feeling of missing out on something if they aren't.

How the hell do I combine those into my SuperCareer? That's what I need. A SuperCareer. Does anybody else have this problem? Is anyone else as crazy as I am? I know you are. Show yourself.

*shakes head*

Like I said, a Hindrance.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~

Either the wine and coffee helped me grow cajones...

Or I just genuinely have more confidence in my writing.

Whatever the reason, I applied to a CopyWriting gig today. I had to supply a couple of samples as well as do a write-up in the style they are hiring for, which just so happens to be a little up my alley. So maybe they'll see that and love me and hire me. Full-time with benefits? I'll take it.

Aside from that, I've been writing a little bit every day so far, and this is a huge deal for me. Usually I go on binges, and then stop for a month or more. No more Literary Bulimia. Time to treat my creative ink-well with respect. That being said, here's one of my Flash Fiction pieces I submitted to be considered:

"Panties"

As we ran from the cops, it occurred to me that I had left my panties in the back seat of my girlfriend’s ’92 Taurus. The wind and our running kept lifting up my skirt, revealing freshly shaved parts, chilled to the core. I struggled, purse falling from my shoulder, to hold my skirt down with my right hand, while she dragged me with my left. We quickly turned left into an alley, ducking behind a garbage can next to a dumpster. It smelled of old cabbage and dog shit. The two cops chasing after us careened around the corner, stopping. They looked around in the dark with their oversized flashlights, not moving from their spots.

“You saw them come down here, right?” The chubby one asked the other chubby one. I couldn’t tell the difference between them; they were both stereotypical white male policemen that had grown comfortable in their not-so-dangerous line of work and probably couldn’t even pursue a one-legged crack addict for longer than three blocks.

“Yeah. Maybe they’re hiding in the dumpster,” Chubby Cop Number Two said, stepping forward. I gasped, and she clasped a hand over my mouth. Number One stopped Number Two. He seemed to be the leader.

“Is it really worth it? They were just foolin around in the back seat anyway,” he replied, then turned around, walking away. Number Two looked down the alley for a second, then followed him back.

We stayed quiet for a few more minutes, then stood up. Following my girlfriend to the street, she checked the street signs, then the road.

“Let’s get a drink. I think you deserve one,” she said, giving my butt a firm smack. As we walked down the sidewalk, I continued to hold my skirt down.

“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked, seriously wishing I had remembered to grab my panties.

“Sure it is. You’ve still got it, right?” I nodded, holding my purse tighter to me.

We stopped at a bar that had a rainbow flag flying high above its neon lit sign, “The Druid Pub”. Walking in, the place was filled with smoke, chatter and same-sex canoodling. We took a seat at the counter, and she ordered two Stellas. The bartender, a jock-type with pink hair and a lip piercing nodded, disappeared, and reappeared with our drinks. She passed him a 20, smiling, while I took a sip.

“Hey, Carrie, I really appreciate you doing this for me,” she said, putting a hand on my thigh. I could feel her inch farther up and I smirked, leaning in.

“What, running from the cops or put--” I was suddenly interrupted by a large Italian man in drag yelling,

“Hey bitches! Did ya miss me?” The bar erupted into applause and cheers, while Gloria Estefan’s song “Conga” began playing over the speakers. The drag queen started dancing (mostly three-step turning) around the room lip-synching the words while men and women held out cash for him to collect as the song played. We watched him and three others do the same thing with different songs, and then she tapped me, saying it was time to go.

We caught a cab ride headed to our destination, and on the ride there, she began kissing me and stroking my legs.

“Baby, you have been turning me on all night, knowing you’re not wearing any panties,” she breathed into my ear. I felt a hand graze past my spot, sending a chill up my spine. I kissed her back eagerly, slipping my hand into her pants. The cab ride slammed to a halt.

“We’re here.” the driver struggled to say it nicely as she passed him his fare with an extra five dollars and we slid out of the back seat. As we walked up to the dingy apartment building decorated with glass bits and cigarette butts, she paused, holding my elbow.

“Why don’t you just give it to me here?”

“Right here?” I asked, feeling my muscles clench. She looked around mockingly.

“There’s nobody here. Come on,” I sighed, handing her my purse. Slowly, I squatted, pulling the piece of rubber I left hanging out of my womanhood. Thanks to our minor session in the car, it was much easier to remove than the last time. I handed over the condom filled with two ounces of marijuana. If only my mother knew.

“You might want to wipe that off a little,” I said.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~