Nothing says “after bars” quite like gardening

Well, friends. It’s official. I have finally secured a full-time job with benefits and a small studio in Chicago.

My apartment is a seven minute (I checked) walk from Mary and Christen’s, which means great things for my social life and horrible things for my liver. If our walk home from the bars on Friday night was an indication of how the coming months will be, then Mary will probably have collected enough plants to start a greenhouse in both of our apartments by spring.

Don't ask.

Don’t ask.

This new promise of apartment shrubbery surely means I must redecorate, so it’s lucky that I purchased myself new bedding for the first time since the eighth grade a couple weeks ago. It is not from PBTeen or pink, and I consider this to be an important sign of maturation.

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I do not yet own a coffee table, bedside table, or couch for my studio, but I have made a few vital purchases, such as old dictionary pages stamped with the Chicago skyline and a wine glass holder for my shower.

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I’m not sure that this purchasing method is entirely pragmatic, as you cannot use either of these items as cookware, but prioritizing has never been my strong suit. I almost bought a juicer, too, but I managed to refrain.

They say a lot about the long, tedious process that is job hunting, but I feel as though no one expresses the desperation of the situation quite as well as this dude:

I never signed up for a billboard myself, but that’s only because I couldn’t afford it. Job hunting makes your reconsider all kinds of things, like your college degree, your general worth as a human being, and whether or not you should throw in the towel and apply at your local McDonald’s instead.

Thankfully the job hunt is now over, and I am very, very excited to be working as a writer at a content marketing agency in the city. I already love all of my coworkers and our building’s proximity to Jimmy John’s, so it’s off to a great start.

jjs

I’ll also still be writing for Whittl on the side, as I love those guys too darn much to stop working for them. My internship with them is by and large the whole reason I was able to fulfill my dream of living in Chicago in the first place and the whole reason I have been able to stay—and I sincerely wish I had been a better addition to their fantasy football league.

My brother Connor and I were catching up today, and after reading a guest post I did for a hilarious dating blogger, he asked me if I would consider doing stand-up comedy with him after he graduates from college. (Side note: Connor is the smarter, funnier, and better-looking Roach sibling. I’m fairly sure that people only keep me around for my endearing lack of conversational boundaries and my ability to out-drink everyone in the room.) I imagine this will only bring shame to our relatives, but I said yes nonetheless and have started on the first skit.

My brother and I are best friends, which is somewhat miraculous considering that A) I never stop talking, and B) he never stops making fun of me. The running joke in the family is that he was completely silent until the age of three because he was pretending to be deaf in an effort to avoid engaging in any kind of conversation with me. (Much to the dismay of my parents, I was speaking in complete, conversational sentences at 18 months and have not slowed down since. Sorry, family.)

Connor makes fun of me so much, in fact, that he could probably do his own skit based entirely on that material alone. When he came to my college graduation, I got lost in the town that I had been living in for four years, and he spent the rest of the drive doubled over laughing in the seat next to me. You can probably imagine how much I fear his first trip to see me in Chicago, as I frequently have to think long and hard about how I can avoid attempting to use the CTA bus system.

They say that your relationship with your father and brother(s) sets the stage for how you interact with men when you grow up, and I would be lying if I said this dynamic has not had a profound effect on my dating life. I have really only talked to and/or dated men who make fun of me incessantly.

This is so ingrained in me, in fact, that I find myself largely turned off by guys who are excessively complimentary. I’m not saying that I like dating assholes, because I certainly do not enjoy that (and I do enjoy genuine compliments), but I am incredibly sketched out by men who only say nice things. I’m quite happy with myself as an individual, but that does not mean that I find my inability to participate in any sport requiring hand-eye coordination cute, and I doubt you do either.

My tendency to select men who err on the side of sarcastic has resulted in not one, but two different guys telling me that they think I should be followed around with a camera. I imagine that if the footage from this hypothetical endeavor were to be turned into an actual show, it would have roughly the same appeal as Bridget Jones’s Diary.

Anyways. You can look for Connor and I’s stand up act to begin in a few years. I will be spending the interim building up enough self esteem to survive what will probably end up being my roast.

In other news, I’m still not quite over the novelty of living in Chicago. I can now take the L without attempting to go the wrong way through the exit turnstile, but I had deep dish pizza for breakfast both days this weekend.

Some things never change.

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