OMG I'M GONNA BE A JOURRRRNALISSSST!

Let's talk about something very annoying for a moment.

I have been having this conversation a good bit recently, and now I seem to notice it everywhere I go. Nothing is more annoying to me than a girl who moves to the city in hopes that she can be a journalist like in the movies, get the big break, the man, the great apartment, and then live happily ever after.

Let me be the first to tell you, if no one has yet, it doesn't work this way.

You have the culprits here... Sex and the City, Sarah Jessica Parker sitting at her antique desk on her brand new Macbook in her perfect STUDIO apartment smoking a cigarette in her yoga pants and asking if "we wear men like hats" or "why can't men be like a good pair of shoes" or some shit like that... and the nation gets swept with the notion of being exaaaactly like this. The glamorous Manhattan life becomes instantly attainable with the right outfit and the right credit card.

It's easy for Sarah Jessica Parker to look so happy when she is getting paid 34 million dollars per episode in a plush soundstage with her personal driver feet away.

Let me explain something... if you move here and get a "freelance writing job" then you will not be living on 72nd street. Nor will you have the brand new Macbook. Nor will you have the man, because what you don't realize is that the kind of man you probably want, if you are one of these women, is a douchebag who wears Penny Loafers and thinks that drinking a Brooklyn Lager makes him edgy. He has the same haircut as when he started his freshman year of highschool, he talks a lot of shit that he can't back up, and will probably ignore you. Sure, he may pay for you to get your vagina waxed once a week and your spiritual advisor and pottery classes, but you'll probably drag a shard of glass across your throat by the time you are 35. Just as a vague scenario.

Anne Hathaway, the Devil Wears Prada. The terrible Shopaholic movie. The re-processed, overglamorized "Morning Glory." These girls in Kansas unfortunately are told inadvertently that if they move to New York to pursue their dreams that it will be complete with panoramic city shots, the tightened, seamless flow of a 120 page screenplay, complete with a 17 dollar cosmopolitan from a suffocating bar, and the tired, vapid stares from the almond shaped eyes of Whitney Port.

What ends up happening?

These girls end up trudging through the snow in their 15 year old Ugg boots with ripping Gristedes grocery bags on the very last stop of the R train in some very back, nameless area of Queens, sniffling, wondering, brimming with remorse, and wondering why the rich, hot dude who banged her last night and then kicked her out so he could sleep has not called her back yet.

NOW.

Before you decide that I am just destroying everyone's dreams, be mindful of the fact that success and happiness is possible in a place like this, but expectations must be real, time has to be committed, and you can sit on Craigslist until your cunt dries out, but that is probably the worst way to go about it. Its about patience and meeting the right people. It is about having a plan, and then changing it. It is about learning how to be smart with your money, look over your shoulder, and stab someone before they stab you.

I am a huge fan of having dreams and pursuing them. But I am also a fan of reality. I've been hit with it too many times.

Happy Tuesday.