Finding Daniella: Chapter 2 – Who Owns My Soul?

25 Mar

I’m not overreacting, not really.  It’s just that when I started into journalism, I’d imagined so many jobs.  So many places I could go.  But nowhere in the list of “Things to do before I die” did I have an entry titled “Work at an ad agency writing ad copies for products no one needs”.  I guess that’s disillusionment for you.  My parents call it “growing up”.


Apparently, the world is short on jobs writing for People magazine, or writing articles on starving children in… well, somewhere.


But recently, I convinced myself that a job is just a job.  I can’t recall why I wanted to go into journalism in the first place these days.  It seems so long ago now that I was submitting college applications.  And somewhere along the way, I forgot why I wanted to do this.  And now I can’t remember and it no longer seems important. 




I’m sitting in front of the MacBook I bought so that I could be trendy, like all of the writers sitting at their local Starbucks, sipping five dollar lattes and typing furiously to show everyone that they’re writers.  Snobbery at its finest. 


I used to be one, writing articles and stories that were all-important to me, but which no one else would contemplate reading.  It seemed important to me.


Fast forward and I’m sitting in front of the same MacBook, only in my kitchen because the five dollar lattes got too expensive, and researching derivatives.  Which are, apparently, some sort of financial instrument.  I’ve never been good at the whole money thing, but now I need it.  This needs to work.


My cellphone vibrates and I flip it open, careful not to dislodge the hinges.  Another thing I can now replace.  It’s a text from Catherine: Did u get it???


I hurry to reassure her that yes, indeed, I was now employed.  The reply comes so fast that I’m sure that she’s just staring at her phone waiting for messages.  Aws, party Phil’s @ 8.  Cu.


Okay, so maybe drinking again tonight – recalling the now receding sedan in my head – may not be the smartest idea.  But it’s like the last hurrah.  I convince myself – not that I necessarily needed a lot of convincing in the first place – that I will never again have the chance to party like I will tonight.  After all, as of tomorrow, I will become the mature, responsible, working adult.  Sure.  Cu.


After this, any motivation to complete that research fades away and my mind drifts to 8pm, and to happier things such as planning my outfit and the drinks that I’ll be having.




It is in this state of bliss that my parents find me when they arrive home.


“Congratulations honey,” my mom says, giving me a quick hug.  Of course they already knew.  I’m certain that Gisele – sorry, Aunt Gisele – called them as soon as she found out, but only to boast about how important she was and how amazing her contacts are.  And how she managed to find the girl-without-a-job a real, full-time job. 


My dad grunts as he comes through the door, the closest I will get to a compliment.


I figure this is the best time to announce my plans for tonight, while they’re still marginally pleased with the fact that I have a job and there is now the potential that I will finally move away from the house that I’ve lived in for over twenty-five years.


Mom shrugs, as usual.  It’s foreign to her, the drinking, and she doesn’t approve.  So it’s easier for her to just ignore it all, pretend that it doesn’t exists.  Dad glares, muttering something under his breath about “irresponsible drunk kids today” as he stomps off to the living room to turn on the TV and become a slug for the rest of the night.


I get it.  I’m the wildchild.  The black sheep.  The child still at home.  You think that one day, it’ll change and that you’ll show everyone.  But it doesn’t.  The labels stick, and they’re too hard to shake.  It’s easier to just live like your label rather than try to explain why the label no longer fits.  


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