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I’m a Big Kid Now!

Yes, I realize I just used the Pull-Ups diaper slogan to describe how my new job makes me feel (insert joke about “shitty job” or something else equally clever, i.e. not clever at all). But I feel like such a grown-up! I have a 401K and everything!

Gone are the days of staying in bed until half past noon because I was out getting my swerve on and macking on randoms until 4am. Mind you, I’m still out late getting shitwrecked, and there will always be randoms, but I still manage to wake up for work on time. Because I’m an adult.
More shocking than my new found sense of responsibility is the fact that people at my job actually like me. Hold on a second, Nikki. People? Liking you?? Must be a joke! Nope; ‘fraid not. I’ve somehow convinced them all that I’m not a sassy, douchey misanthrope. Which probably has something to do with the homemade brownies I brought in my first week. #bakingforsuccess
Speaking of workplace snacking, I now understand why office employees get chunky. I always thought it was because people’s metabolisms slow down in their mid-to-late 20’s, which coincides with the time frame in which many of them find gainful employment. Nope. It’s the workplace chocolate. There is chocolate EVERYWHERE. And samosas (probably exclusive to jobs where you work with a lot of Indian people). And coffee cake. And pretzels. And bagels. And, occasionally, pizza. My tan LOFT pencil skirt barely fits over my ass anymore–I wonder how that happened.
TL;DR: New workout regiment starts tomorrow; right after I finish all the leftover meatballs and caramel brownies at home.
We’re gonna call this a fresh start.
I’m out of college, I’ve got a great full-time gig, and I no longer have to worry about the sexual antics of Quiet Neighbor; it’s almost like I’m a brand new Nikkipedia! So much so that I would seriously consider abandoning this blog altogether and starting a new one…but I’m too lazy to build a new site and I really like this domain. So I will stay here with you, lovely fanbitches, and plunge forward into life as an adult.
As I mentioned, among the new developments in my life is my career switch. I’ve left the law behind for a new job in software engineering. Well, it’s not so much “new” as it is “new to you”–I started mid-August–because I’m just plain terrible at keeping this thing updated. I’ve made and broken promises before about becoming a more diligent blogger, so I will spare you another broken heart–I probably won’t keep this authorial momentum running. In any event, my job is cool and nerdy and I work with cool and nerdy people using cool and nerdy tools to make cars go vroom. That was quite literally the posted job description.
Side note: using “literally” to mean “figuratively” isn’t a writing error; it merely intensifies the preexisting hyperbole. BOOM! English major-roasted.
Back to the recent developments in Nikkipedia’s life. I’m resuscitating That Stylish Bitch. I don’t know how long it will last, but right now I’m on a roll. You may find two new articles here. And by “you may find,” I mean “go read them now, and I can tell if you didn’t because I have a ticker for my views; if you don’t read it I will cry over all my wasted efforts to impress you; I just want to be popular.”
I’m kind of a square.

So, I am now a gainfully employed lady. I’m working at a small law firm as an errand bitch a paralegal/administrative assistant. The experience is great, it’s something I can carry into law school, and it gives me an excuse to go to Daley Plaza everyday four times a day.

The courthouse, as it turns out, is a fantastic place to play my favorite game: “Pregnant or Fat?”* and sometimes, “Pregnant, Fat, or a Man?”**

The game itself is pretty self-explanatory, but doesn’t always yield definitive answers. For a specific clientele, “six months pregnant” and “taking a smoke break” aren’t always mutually exclusive. If I were the kind of person who used emoticons, a frownie face would go here.

Now that you know how to play, you can take this game pretty much anywhere. Try it at the grocery store, the DMV, the bank, McDonalds–the possibilities are endless.

 

*No fat-shaming intended by my comment. I apologize to those I have offended.

**Again, no offense intended. I appreciate the full spectrum of gender expression and the fluidity thereof. Regardless of chromosomal identity, individuals should present whatever gender expression makes them most comfortable.

Eavesblogger

Dear Dad,

Please stop reading over my shoulder while I’m on my laptop. I could be looking at porn. Or renewing my membership and newsletter subscription to the Kardashian Fan Club. Or other things you don’t want to see. So please, stop it.

Love,

Nikkipedia

An Open Letter

Dear “Shake Weight for Men,”

Who do you think you’re fooling?

https://www.sw4men.com/

 

Pages upon pages of glistening, half-naked men? Let’s call a spade a spade. It’s gay erotica.

 

Sincerely,

A big fan of glistening, half-naked men

Let me preface this post by saying that I love Jeff Healey. I love that blind, Canadian bastard. I love the song “Angel Eyes”–by far, the Jeff Healey Band’s biggest hit. I love him in the 1989 cinematic masterpiece Road House, starring Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott. I love everything about him. Love love love. Broseph Healey has unfortunately moved on to that big blues-rock jam session in the sky, but he left behind some fantastic licks for us mere mortals.

That said, there’s a serious problem with “Angel Eyes.” Namely, the first line: “Girl, you’re looking fine tonight.” How the fuck did he know?! He was blind. Like, for realsies, blind. Not “I’m Amanda from America’s Next Top Model and I’m legally blind and isn’t that so sad but not as sad as last season when they had that girl with lupus,” no no no; none of that bullshit. He was legit blind. In all reality, he had no idea if that girl was looking fine that night. She could have looked like a hippopotamus.

So, Jeff Healey’s ghost, was this all some kind of tongue-in-cheek joke? I appreciate a guy with a sense of humor. If I hadn’t already undergone extensive therapy for my necrophilia, I’d be all over you like white on rice. Dead, blind rice.

It’s nearly summer, and I am positively giddy about it. Sun, BBQs, margaritas, that hot shirtless guy who jogs past my house; it’s enough to make a girl dizzy. But that might just be heat stroke.

Although I am officially a college graduate, I still feel like a student on summer vacation. Probably because I’m still unemployed. It’s so great to be back in Chicagoland, living with my parents, without a job, without a significant other…it’s like I’m back where I was in high school, just $100,000 poorer. Thanks, college education!

My life is actually pretty wonderful at the moment. I spend my days running errands, job hunting, and doing some housework. I was asked out to drinks by a pro athlete (long story, will update later). I’ve turned the sun room into my own private booze room, and by that I mean I stocked the fridge, rearranged the furniture, and put some speakers in there. I also started doing bikram yoga. I never really had myself pegged as a yoga kind of gal, and all the chanting-ohm-namaste bullshit makes me want to punt a baby off a bridge. But bikram is different, mostly because the room is hot. Like, bowels-of-hell hot. 105 degrees, to be exact. It’s an actual workout, and while I don’t think I’ll do it again after my month-long trial period, I can honestly say that my ass has never looked better.

While I’d love to fill in more of the blanks of my unemployed-yet-spectacularly-fulfilling life, I’m a bit busy working on my tan at the moment. Ciao, fanbitches.