I rested my chin upon my hand and sighed, running the tip of my finger of the brim of the wildly colored coffee cup. I sat in the clichéd coffee shop, lazily looking around and wondering if anything different would happen that day. My dark blonde hair hung in my face, shadowing the dark circles under my eyes. I hadn't slept in nights, what with having a yearly portfolio due on the side to a main course of three final exams.
What with all these distractions, the most major being the university in general, my internship had it's wear and tear on my life and sleep habits as well. My boss, Julie, would be out sick today (sick, meaning she reached the end of her wardrobe rotation and needed a new outfit to add) and asked me to cover interviews she'd scheduled with a few sex symbols for the poppy teen magazine I was strapped to. I took out the list that was faxed to me no more than an hour ago.
10:30- Meet supervisor for instructions @ main building.
Damn supervisor. Derek was his name. Everyone kissed his ass constantly, and he hardly noticed any odd behavior, too busy wallowing in his longing to kiss the ass of every attractive male celebrity that walked into the office. Insecurities? Just a few.
11:15- Interview, Britney Spears' publicist.
(Like, oh my God!)
11:45-12:30-Lunch break. Don't wander. Urgent calls will hold you back.
I was an intern for Christ's sake! This was a hefty pile of work. Rumors about Britney Spears and her whole team and/or posse were spread around work like the flu. Apparently I was not to be dealing with pleasant people.
12:45- You will be driven to the set of the movie Try Seventeen. Push for interviews, can't be sure of anything.
Are you kidding me? I groaned, my eyes darkening with more hate for Julie the further I went down the page.
3:15-Return to office. You're done for the day, good luck on your psych exam.
Damn it. Yeah. Good luck. I can chase teeny sex symbols around all day, that's an idea far superior to studying or working on my portfolio. Heaven forbid I would ever want to get a job better than this one.
I looked at my biscotti, momentarily wondering why I chose the fattening pastry as my breakfast. I took a last sip of the bitter coffee and pursed my lips as it washed down my throat. I carefully discarded the porcelain mug in a washbin and rolled up the biscotti, crumbs and all, and threw it into the trash. Looking down at myself, I felt my top lip curl in disgust. Since this school year had started, I'd developed a little more than a belly, growing more rapidly as of late. I was now able to see the beginnings of a fat roll over the belt of my jeans and scolded myself. It wasn't my fault, however. With all the studying and work, I had no time to work out or even job in the night or early mornings. I'd lost many of my friends, and my social life (or lack thereof) was not going as well as I would have liked. (Did I mention I'm also good at avoiding blaming things on myself?)
And so I stepped out on the sidewalk, into the early morning in the big city, cabs honking irritably at business people who darted across the street when driver's weren't paying attention, high heels clicking and brief cases swinging madly at their sides.
This is how my day begins five days a week.
Routine, clichéd, typical.