So tonight, in the long and meandering conversation that is Jason and Amanda's relationship, I learned that I have no goals. And not only do I have no goals, but I have no wants. Wants besides "being really great" and "accomplished" and "beauteous." I'm not even sure if I want to have goals. Part of me romanticizes the unknown world of opportunity, the road ahead, the unmet people and the unrealized talents that float amorphously in my vision of the future. And part of me is sure that if I don't get my ass moving on something "significant" than I'll just have wasted my life, feel impoverished of soul and mind and be miserable and die as one of the hapless trillions whose only legacy to mankind are the original atoms they borrowed for their short existence.
Tonight I got myself all purdied up -- yes in a pretty silk dress with black high heels and diamond jewelry. And a side-swept curly, 1940's inspired hairdo. It was the screening party of Helen Hunt's directorial debut, a small budge indie Then She Found Me, starring Bette Midler, Matthew Broderick, Colin Firth and many more. I didn't see the movie, I only get to go to the parties. They were all there, except Colin, the only one I'd actually wanted to see. Sarah Jessica Parker was there as well. And swarms of other famous faces. I didn't talk to to many people. My sister and I ogled and judged as we ate our world famous sushi at the world famous Nobu 57. It wasn't an occasion for interviews, only for views.
I managed break the ice with this one guy, a former screenwriter for Mad About You and Win a Date with Tad Hamilton, who was very nice and smart and I ended up lying to him about where I work. Not because I was outright trying to impress him, but a spy like me must be choosy about revealing herself. But the trouble with lying about what you do, even if the intentions are only to conceal one's shady intentions, is that it always calls attention to what you are not. Calls attention to the disparity between who you are and who you want to be.
I am generally pretty proud of working at In Touch. It's a huge publication: my writing gets read by a minimum of 1.5 million people a week. It's incredibly fun and glamorous and it's trained me well for more than just a career in journalism--opening my eyes to a lot of social dynamics i was retarded about for most of my life. So it's not so much that I'm ashamed, but after the initial satisfaction of impressing someone, I find myself having to defend gossip journalism and my own integrity, and inevitably say "well, obviously I don't want to do this for the rest of my life!"
But for godssssakkesss, what the FUCK do I want to do???!!!
Here are some options: painting, acting, screen writing, more journalism: serious news journalism, investigative reporting? women's magazines? MEN's magazines? Go back to grad school for errr English? Journalism? Art? Film? Public policy? Travel the world? Go to medial school? Be a fashion designer. be a teacher? A college professor? Rock star? Poet? Pornographer?
"I'm every woman. It's all in meeeeeee!"
But if I'm "everything" than I'm not really "anything." Just a dilettante
My new business card should say:
Amanda Mikes
Dilettante
Makes insightful remarks about things she really dosen't know about.
Paints, writes and cooks really well.
Okay this entry is getting postmodern.
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