Sex and the Ivy

Shanghai Shanghai Shanghai

Filed under: Adia, Travel — Elle March 30, 2007 @ 11:50 am

From     Adia
To         Lena
Date     Mar 30, 2007 1:29 AM

we’re going to china.

<3 Adia

It’s as official as it’s going to get for the moment. Fuck yeah, Shanghai and Hong Kong this August!

Addendum to Previous Post

Filed under: Work — Elle March 29, 2007 @ 4:48 pm

“Kermit” commented in my last entry:

I highly doubt that freelancing will allow you to write what you want because you still have to cater to the requests of your publisher. So it’s whoring no matter which way you go. With the other option, at least you have the luxury of choice to pick the second option at some time in the future (or become the Man rather just work for him).

My response:

Unless you’re the CEO, you have to cater to the requests of superiors no matter which occupation you choose. The same goes for freelance writing, but hey, at least I’m not busting my ass 70 hours a week at a job I hate (I’m not generalizing either, 90% of people I know in financial services loathe the lifestyle). Writing, with complete editorial control or not, is still more satisfying to me than crunching numbers. As for an income that offers “the luxury of choice” in the future, I say fuck that. By the time you get out of your two-year contract, finish business school, and pay back those loans, you’re pushing 30 and ready for the next great financial strain: marriage and kids. Sure, it’s easy to say that you can do what you really love in a few years, but the reality is that it’s now or never. And I’m not exactly known for my patience.

Besides, who says writers can’t enjoy comfortable lifestyles while honing their craft? The only gig cushier than working for the Man is fucking the Man and getting all the benefits of a six-figure job without actually, you know, doing the job. After all, great artists have always had their patrons.

Love,

Lit Whore With Better Hours Than Yours

Color Me Corporate

Filed under: Work — Elle March 28, 2007 @ 7:05 pm

Funny fact: I’ve landed on the LGBT email list for practically every top investment bank and consulting firm.

I have to say from personal experience that queer networking events are about 20 times more fun and bearable than the general info sessions that feel like meatmarkets for Ivy League whores and their corporate johns. Even months after deciding to take the literary route, I’m still tempted to attend the events diversity recruiters invite me to. Their email notifications (recipient list suppressed, of course) conjure up images of intimate, not mass, gatherings where people are calm, collected, and fuck, even friendly.

Maybe it’s because the focus isn’t on the work at hand, but rather on the lifestyle and culture of the company. In that respect, the burden is on the employers, not the recruits, to sell themselves. So instead of on-the-spot job interviews, people engage in actual conversation. You know, like civilized folks. You probably won’t find too many of those at typical recruiting events which are almost always noisy, overcrowded pressure cookers where people go to develop inferiority complexes.

But regardless, both low-stress and high-stress recruiting lead to the same career. Gay or straight, these kids are still all working for the Man and damn do their souls go for a lot on auction. My peers’ six-figure salaries will beat my 20-grand-and-food-stamps freelance writing gameplan any day. And what do I have to show for it? Just a resume in which the word “sex” appears no less than five times and the word “quantitative” is permanently banned. Unless you’re offering me a corner office, I wouldn’t trade this for the world.

Philadelphia/New York

Filed under: Uncategorized — Elle March 25, 2007 @ 7:55 pm

In Philadelphia for the week, save for Monday-Wednesday when I’ll be visiting the Big Apple. Call for meals, coffee, etc. As always, my schedule is undetermined until the last moment.

Fear and Yearning

Filed under: Love — Elle March 19, 2007 @ 9:49 pm

When we met, I barely gave you a glance over, but five minutes past the door, I saw you in full light and was hooked.

It could have been your laugh or the smile that followed. It was more likely that in you, I saw everything I wanted in me.

You are all beauty and presence. Before you, I am struck nervous and uncertain and overwhelmed at once. I am fumbling for the right words, the right gestures, the right expressions to convey my interest without betraying my lust. And you are too too beautiful, too perfectly obliging, too innocuously affectionate for me to think that you could possibly realize your effect. I don’t know how to tell you but you terrify me in the same instance you awe me.

And even when you speak to my face, I can barely look you in the eye. If this isn’t love at first sight, if this isn’t the pull of unrequited passion, then I don’t know what is. Because you have warmed something deep and untouched within my chest and all I can do is wonder about the nature of your intentions.

“So how many hearts did you break this week?” someone asked me tonight. I think I will allow myself the silly luxury of entertaining the notion of our romantic possibility, and I answer, “Maybe just my own.”

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