Orange Is the New (Sarah) Black

"Now I was a for-real, hardened con. I felt infinitely better."- Piper Kerman, Orange Is the New Black

Okay. So maybe, I wasn't a hardened criminal. I'm still not a con. But, I was really arrested and I am really now a criminal. How's that for "you thought you knew Sarah Black?" Not so goodie-two-shoes now, am I? I don't know why I'm bragging about it. I kind of hate it.  But, the story is pretty good. Let this serve as 90% PSA 10% "Let Sarah make an ass of herself on the internet." So, here it is:

It was a dark and stormy night... Wait, wrong intro.

It was a Monday night. There we go. Yeah. It was a Monday. A fucking Monday night. I hadn't slept in two days, and what little sleep I got before that was minimal because I was riding the high of the best first date weekend ever. [Please see this for details on how that ended up for me.] Friday Karaoke, Saturday Cy-Hawk Football tailgate that turned into a late night frat party and me stealing a first kiss finally at 4a just to have to wake up at 8 and drive to Illinois for a bestie's baby shower. Let me put my life into perspective with this whole weekend...

I met a guy on Tinder on Friday afternoon. Against my final swear that I'd never go on another Tinder date after I was abandoned mid date at the comedy club the week before, I agreed to go on the date with the guy on the mere principle that he asked "On a scale of One to America, how free are you tonight?" Who can resist that? Well, I did, actually. I called him an asshat and said not to use lines on me. But, our conversation otherwise was fruitful. Cue our amazeballs first date and me inviting my friends to meet us because I couldn't leave the date yet. As he walked me to my car he insisted that I meet him the next morning for the Cy-Hawk Delta Chi tailgate. I was fashionably late to that event, but he never left my side and introduced me to everyone. Talk about a gem. This guy was cool. Cue everyone going to their respective homes for a nap. It was a long day. He then insisted we see each other again and we met up with my friends for some pool. The good sport even stuck around hanging out with my cooky uncle and his goth girlfriend. Nothing could scare this guy off. I accompanied him to the Delta Chi house and we slung beers and stood around telling fart jokes and telling faux pas stories about boning fat chicks and the like. I was one of the only girls there and the other girls were all clearly freshmen... I related to the guys a lot more. We finally parted ways at 4a after standing at my car for an hour awkwardly waiting for one of us to kiss the other. I endlessly give him shit that I had to kiss him first, but he just says that I'm lucky he reciprocated and I'm welcome. Asshat.

Phew. So, excessively long sleepless date recap over.

Cue 8a. I promised him I'd call to make sure we both woke up in time to drive back to Illinois. 830 I actually called and he just said, "You're late." I made some argument about how comfy my bed was but swore that I was sorry.

I rolled out of bed and into my car. Shower? What's that? Change of clothes? Why? Leggings and comfy shirts are perfectly fine attire for a baby shower, right? Good enough.

I arrived on time for the baby shower, surprisingly so. Caught up with old friends. Ate too much. Played some games. Helped pack the car with the baby loot and took my ass home to my parents house.

Around 4p, I decided it was time to take a nap, but having been in constant contact with Fratstar dateboy since 830a, I was giggly and giddy and couldn't nap. I decided to stay the night and leave at 330a the next day. I didn't fall asleep until 11/1130/12ish. Who knows. Fratstar was entertaining. Next thing I knew it was 330a and I had to leave to make it to my personal training session on time. I drove to Iowa City, trained, worked, and went home. (The whole day texting Fratstar, of course).

I had been asked to come and try out an open mic standup downtown Iowa City the week prior (when I was stood up mid date at the comedy club and left to have coffee with a homeless woman with her masters in writing. Oh, the people you meet in Iowa City). Apparently, my life experience, raw, and unscripted was enough for the MC there to insist I tell my stories.

I got home, drained that Monday and realized that if I didn't go to the open mic that night, I would probably chicken out and never do it. I talked myself into it. I begged my roommate to go, but she had to watch teen mom, or some other Basic White Girl show. No judgement, Al. <3

So, nervous to get up and word vomiting all of the jokes I had scribbled on pieces of paper throughout the week, I grabbed a couple tall boys for moral support and left. I parked my car and chugged a bad boy in the parking lot before I headed into the venue. Did I mention it was Busch Light? Oh yeah. Classtastic. I know. Be jeal. I sat in the car and rehearsed the jokes that I really should credit to Fratstar. He was the inspiration for most of them, because every typo in our textual relationship became a hilarious joke about anal sex. If you've seen my standup, you know that's my favorite subject.

Cue me having a second beer at 9p. My amazing cousin Ashley came out with her mom Deb and a few friends to see the show. Even though I was higher in the lineup, I kept getting bumped until a later set. I don't know if they were trying to space out the two girls performing that night, or if they were trying to make sure the crowd was drunk before I got up. But the MC took his sweet ass time getting me on stage. I had another beer in the interim. I knew I had to drive. I was being careful. I finally got on stage and this happened. Not an amazing performance. Definitely a lot of F-Bombs. But, for a first timer, I was proud.

I left the stage and everyone wanted to buy me drinks. It was now 1a, I hadn't slept in two days and in the scurry to get my shit together and get to the venue after work, that parking lot beer was my dinner. I refused shots left and right letting people know that I had to drive home. 2a rolled around and my cousin and I decided Pancheros was a good idea, but this creepo from the show insisted on buying us Panch. I got the worst vibes from him and he wouldn't leave us alone so I insisted we go to the one on the main drag instead of downtown. She argued a little but, eventually agreed. It had been 5 hours since my first beer. Maybe less than an hours since I finished my last.

Cue cherries and berries behind my little white Volkswagen. It was a Monday. A fucking Monday. Dillhole cop asks me if I knew how fast I was going. I replied I was sorry, I wasn't even thinking about it. I didn't have the pedal to the metal at all. He said it was 30 through there. I replied that surprised me. I always thought it was at least 35/40. I told him, I bet a lot of people speed through there. He, oh so wisely, pointed out that my house was the other direction from where I was headed. He asked me where I was going. I said Panch. I was sitting in front of my destination. He pointed out the obvious, that it was closed and I said "I see that now. I was avoiding a creepy guy who was harassing us at the one downtown." Did he send anyone to check out who was harassing girls downtown? NO. Without hesitation, he asked me if I had been drinking. I had a stamp on my hand from the show and the empty tall boy in my car. I didn't lie. But I also didn't think it an issue. Afterall, I didn't even feel buzzed. 3 beers in 5 hours? That's nothing. Er, nothing if you have slept or eaten; neither of which I had successfully done that day.

He immediately pulled me out of the car and started sobriety testing me while the backup he called- yeah fucking backup, for a little girl in a bug on a MONDAY FUCKING NIGHT. Backup searched my car and found the empty tall boy and the full, unopened companion hidden. The dipshit, Backup, asked me why I had hidden the cans from him. I replied, "You are cops..." That was the end of that conversation and the beginning of the most ridiculous sobriety testing ever.

To fail a street test, you have to fail two of the three tests; HGN, Walk and Turn, and the One-Leg stand.  I could tell I was failing the HGN because almost EVERYONE fails the HGN. Then the guy asked me to do the Walk and Turn test, but prefaced it with "Do you have any medical reason that would impair your walking." I told him honestly that I had been seen within the last six months for serious ankle issues that hindered my balance. No joke. I have horrible ankles and I have the podiatrist bills to prove it. He asked if it hindered my walking. I said, "I hinders my balance." He said, "Does it hinder your walking?"... Are you fucking serious? I said "It hinders my balance." He said, "Does it hinder your walking." I said, "No" just to shut him up. After all, I was not drunk. What were they going to do? He then said, "Follow the instructions exactly. Do you understand?" I said "I believe so." He said. "Do you understand?" I said, "I believe so." He said "Yes or no, do you understand." I said, "I believe so, yes." He said, "YES OR NO, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE INSTRUCTIONS." I said, "Yes." Evidently, the- as he claimed it- argument was enough for me to fail the test before I even began it. Are you all seeing the pattern here. I wasn't giving him the answers he wanted so he said I was arguing with him. After that dumb shit, he asked me to do the one-leg stand but was pulling out his breathalizer as I finished up. For having weak ankles, I didn't even flinch and I know I did it just fine because, oh yeah, I was there and I wasn't drunk. I willingly blew into the breathalizer and waited for him to be more of a dick to me.

.09. Imagine my shock.... He then says some snide remark, "I think you've had way more than the one beer you admitted to me." Might I draw your attention to the fact that when he asked me if I had been drinking, I said yes. He said when was your last one, I said "Not, that long ago." I never gave him a number of drinks. Ever. But it was three.

He put me in the squad car while the Backup threw the empty beer can and the full one back in my car and parked it. Dillweed who was testing me said, "You're not under arrest. Just have to take you back to the station." Cue me calmly sitting in the room with THREE OTHER OFFICERS. Seriously, guys? You need THREE officers to hold a 5-foot-3, buck fifty girl who blew a .09 ON A MONDAY FUCKING NIGHT? Still convinced I would be fine to blow, and refusing meant I lost my license for a year, I blew in the breathalizer at the station- the one that is admissible in court. Yep. .09. The officer said, "Sarah, you are now under arrest for a DUI. Do you understand?" (I believe so) I said, "Yes.," and began quietly sobbing. The butch woman standing guard handed me a tissue. Dillweed cuffed me. The three officers put me back in the squad car. Backup buzzed over the walkie, "How the hell do you lock this car?" he asked. It's not fucking rocket science, guys. I told Dillweed to tell Backup use the key. What a novel fucking concept. Protect and serve whom while you can't even lock a Volkswagon Beetle?

Cuffed, I was escorted in by Dillweed and met with three more sheriffs for intake at the jail. Dillweed bid them adieu and I said, sincerely, "Thanks." Why the fuck did I say, "Thanks"?? I guess it was my last plea for mercy; my last "I'm so sweet, why wont you trust me?"

Still crying, the three sheriffs at the jail let me make some phone calls. I got a few because they heard me say to my mom, "Get ready, I'm going to lose my job and have to move into your basement." The next day was my actually first day in the trial run for the position I was up for promotion into and I was sitting in jail with zero clue as to when I would be released. At least not until noon. I called my boss and left a voicemail stating I had 'family issues'. With that, I was booked. They printed me, mug-shotted me, and gave me an oversized orange jumpsuit to change into.

You may or may not know this about me, but I love dresses and skirts. On this fine night, I happened to be wearing a skirt and pantyhose. What does pantyhose mean? No panties. They took my hose from me. They took my bra from me. I wasn't allowed shoes or socks. I was completely al fresco in the unflattering orange jumpsuit. As my final, friendly, feminine, female, escort and I approached the cell door, I paused and said "I feel like I hit rock bottom." "The good news is, There's only up from here." She handed me a blanket, turned the key and jailed me for the night.

I had a few panic attacks. If you know anything about my previous bouts with anxiety (touched on here) then you know my panic attacks are crippling. Literally. They can be so bad my hands, arms, and legs seize up and I hyperventilate to the cusp of unconsciousness. One finally put me under and I 'slept' until some young buck offered me a granola bar. Fuck you and your granola bar. Oh, it's beautiful. Cue two more crippling attacks while I waited to be escorted to the courtroom.

Another large manly woman arrived and told me to shuffle to the "courtroom." A room two doors down from cell-block D where I had come to know life as a jailbird. They took my itchy wool blanket, the only possession betrothed to me by the three sheriffs, that I had come to find comfort in the freezing cement and steel cell. They sat me in the back row with the only other woman who had been brought in that Monday night. I was a Nosey Nelly and read the police report in her had. Evidently, she had done a number on her boyfriend and was brought in on domestic abuse charges. I was suddenly glad I didn't have a cellmate.

Two rows in front of me was a man I knew from the homeless shelter. Don't worry folks, I wasn't homeless. I knew Seymour from all the days I worked volunteering at the homeless shelter. Yeah guys, I'm really a criminal. I was curious to see what he had been brought in on, but they shuffle the girls out of there pretty quickly. I was up first.

The judge did his usual "I hate my job" spiel and asked if I wanted a court appointed attorney. He had the paperwork I filled out that morning with my crippled hands and the sorry excuse they give you for a pen (they don't want anyone getting stabbed, I guess). I froze. I had no idea if my parents were going to get me an attorney. I hadn't talked to them since I was booked and we had no game plan then. Seymour yelled from behind me, "You want one, Sarah." I couldn't tell if he recognized me from the shelter or if the judge had said my name at some point. I was still a case number as far as I knew. Cue more tears. I was advised by the judge that I could apply again later for one. I said I didn't want one and was released on my own recognizance.

Hearing I was being released gave me a flicker of hope. I thought I would be free to go then and there after I picked up my stuff. Amazon Amanda, the baliff, escorted me toward an exit. Just kidding. The exit was past my cell. I took one step too far and she grabbed me by the arm so aggressively, you would have thought I was a donut and she hadn't seen food in weeks. She firmly guided me back to my cell where I asked "How long do I have to wait?" She replied, "As long as it takes," and shoved me back in the cell. I heard the clink of the key turning again. Cue another panic attack.

As I sat there, sockless, shoeless, pantiless, braless, on the bottom bunk I stared at whatever there was to stare at. I couldn't believe myself when I let out a laugh. A gut-busting laugh when I read the graffiti, no doubt written by the same sorry excuse for a blue pen I had written with that morning, were the words "It smell like cryin' in here." I couldn't tell at the time if it was truly funny or I had snapped from 7 hours in the hole but I was sure as shit laughing.

After the manic episode, I paced the cell for a while. I read the only (racially prejudiced latina) magazine written entirely in Spanish and tested how much I had retained from college. There was a clock on the other side of the little window they use to check on you and make sure you haven't found a way to hurt yourself. It had been an hour since court. I peed in the wide open toilet. A jailer checked on me just at the right time. Great. I love being degraded even further by not being able to pee in peace. I buzzed the buzzer hoping it worked. I hadn't had anything to drink since 130 that morning when I left the bar. I asked for a glass for water.

Over the intercom, a witchy voice replied, "You should have gotten one when you checked in." As if it were a hotel and I chose to "check in." I calmly retorted, "I am sorry, I only got a blanket when I got here." she said it would be a while and I said thanks.

An hour and a half later, about to pass out from dehydration on top of the fact that I was parched from hyperventilating for the previous hours, I buzzed again asking calmly when I might expect the cup. "It ain't coming. Use your hands."

Oh. OK. I'll get right on using my hands that have touched everything in this disgusting place. That's exactly how I wanted to get Hep. How did I not think of that before? Fuck her. I sat waiting.

An hour later I was released. I was given my clothes and I returned the grimy old jumpsuit that had been all over my lady bits. I hoped they washed them thoroughly beforehand. They handed me all of my shit and pointed me to the exit.

I walked out of the Johnson County jail in my skirt with no pantyhose or panties (because fuck them) into the bright warm sun of September. I walked the most shameful walk of shame I have ever walked down Riverside Dr. I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be in. I got a text from a friend asking why I was walking near campus. I didn't reply. Praying that my car was still there, I approached the lot and found my bug. I opened the door and sitting right on the passenger seat were the empty beer can and the full one from the night before. Are you kidding me? I hid them in the back seat and drove home to shower off jail.

In all of this, I would like to say I learned more than to always wear underwear. But it was all just a perfect combination of bad timing, and stupid things. It was a weekend that I went to a tailgate, a frat party, did a standup set and got arrested- while my bestie was having a baby shower. Talk about feeling like I need to reevaluate my life. 3 beers in 5 hours should have never ruined my life as I knew it. But this is my reality. Maybe it was my cue to grow up and join the adult world where my friends are getting married and reproducing. Maybe not. But, if there's one thing I know about life; it goes on.

And so concludes this chapter in my life: Orange Is the New (Sarah) Black.

Pics or it didn't happen!

This image graced the Iowa City Press Citizen homepage as the default mugshot for a whole week. Please note how it is labeled as 1/100 photos. 

Here We Go Again...

"I'm young, and I'm dumb, and I do stupid things when it comes to love. But, even if I always end up crying, you can't blame a girl for trying."- Sabrina Carpenter

I am officially another year older. 24 came faster than a virgin. I don't feel any smarter, any wiser. I feel blindsided and lost; I still feel like a stupid little girl.

I couldn't write for several weeks because I was a little brokenhearted. Shocker there, eh? Surprisingly, I made that move and finally stopped seeing the guy from the post before. YAY ME! It was my choice and it was empowering and I didn't even cry about it. Er, well, I barely cried about it. The sad part is, I only left because I found someone even more amazing and even more worth fighting for. That doesn't seem sad since he was amazing and worth fighting for. But, it's sad that it took me finding someone else to finally close that chapter in my life.

My first date with the new guy was, hands down, the best date ever. I have been on some pretty fantastic dates (also some shittier ones, like I mention in my stand up) but this guy was so unashamedly open, I couldn't resist. Honesty is sexy to me, and we were more than honest with each other. We talked about everything you're never supposed to talk about on a first date. And, we loved it. I will enact this policy of honesty on first dates from now on. There were no surprises about numbers of sexual partners, no guesses on religion or favorite food, no "I didn't realize he was that kind of liberal," moment after our first date. We knew everything about one another that should have scared us off from each other and all we did was make plans for the next morning- after karaoke of course. Best first date ever. I was hooked.

I would like to say I was being dumb and ignoring all the typical signs I have seen before when I fall into these one-sided love affairs. I'm usually the one to initiate phone calls, or texts. Finding time for them was my job and it was obvious I was usually more into him than he me. My fault. I know. I guess I usually just hope for the best. This time it was different.

He called me. He texted me. He made time for me and invited me places and introduced me to people. I kissed him first, but only because I knew it would be a while before we got to see each other again and he was clearly being a pansy about it. I wanted to give him the reassurance he needed to make it work with the distance and time we were about to face. It was so worth it. And he so made the effort. He wanted to meet my friends and he wanted me to stay an extra day when I visited. He wanted me to cook for him and we could just be lazy with no plans and everyone was a happy camper. This time it was different; except it wasn't.

All of that, just to end up in the same fucking situation I am always in: He loves me not.

There was a definitive point in which things changed. I hadn't done anything different and all of the sudden, I was overcome with all of my standard insecurities. Cue my neurotic girl brain jumping into overdrive. Out of no where two days went by without a word from him. Naturally, I overcompensated for his quietus and had a somewhat lengthy conversation with myself via text. I had to get it together, because if there's one thing that's certain, ALL WOMEN ARE CRAZY. The trick is to make all men believe we are the exception to this rule. I had to tone it down.

I let him have his space. But, I knew that we were close enough and comfortable enough for me to ask some questions. After all, our faux pas first date proved to me that we are clearly good communicators. So, I asked. The response has been a point of controversy among me and my friends. Most of the girls all say it's an understandable and reasonable response. The guys all say its a cop out. I don't rightly care which is the truth. What hurts is that I am not enough. He said we couldn't be together because he's not over his ex. Cool. I get that. But, this is an ex from two years ago. I know what it sounds like on the surface. But, as I sat with him on the phone crying (I assured him I am also an intense movie crier), I couldn't help but believe him. There was no reason for either of us to lie to the other. We had been so painfully honest about everything else in our lives, why start lying now?

Take it for what it is, cop out or true struggle, the reality is, I wasn't enough. I wasn't enough to make him get over her, or I wasn't enough to make him want to think of a better excuse than an ex from two years ago haunting his sheets. Whatever the truth, there I was again. For the third time this calendar year alone (a couple the year before), I was in yet another one-sided love affair; the worst kind of love affair.

This man makes me laugh non stop. He is the perfect compliment to my wild, unstructured, unplanned approach to life. He levels me out and brings be back down when I get my head too far in the clouds without any plan. He is one of the most supportive people I have ever met and he consistently encourages me to do what I love but demands a plan of action to do so. He puts everything into perspective for me. He consoles me when I'm sad or overwhelmed. Even better, he makes me feel sexy and wanted and worthy whenever we are together. We can talk for hours about nothing and have said everything we needed to. I feel taken care of and needed in the exact same moment. As simple as it is, it is everything a woman wants to feel. We all want to play the role of best friend and lover. With him I get that.

I want to say "got" not "get" but not much has changed. Remember how much I love to torture myself with hopefulness and listfulness? Oops, I did it again. The cooing and the swooning and the willingness to do anything for him because I foolishly believe that maybe he will come to and realize that I am the one he wants; that I am the one he needs. They never do. I'm only fooling myself. But I will keep trying, because I have to. I have to be absolutely certain he doesn't love me before I walk away. Because, what if this time it's different?

It never is.

- S.

Walking The Tightrope: If

"I can accept failure. Everyone fails at something. But, I can't accept not trying." -Michael Jordan

If we never said "if" we would never have to wonder. This is a thought so strange, apparently, when it escaped my eighteen-year-old mouth as I walked out of a gift shop in Mystic, Connecticut, of all places, a middle-aged stranger stopped me cold and with the most intense eye contact said "That is so profound," and walked away. In that exact moment, I knew what I said was more meaningful than what I intended it to mean in passing. I spent the next six years repeating it in my own head. My mantra. My words. My inspiration to myself.

It is incredible how this two-letter word has ruined so many lives in such a cunning a way as a two-letter word can. "If he loved me." "If she stayed." "If I hadn't done yadiya..." "If I had chased that ridiculous dream." I cannot live with asinine questions like this. They eat you from the inside like a parasite, feeding off of your insecurity growing into regret taking over your thoughts and actions, becoming that one moment in your life where everything could have been different, better. I do not regret. I do not ask "if."

I am sitting in my parents kitchen brewing a second pot of coffee for the day, in my typical "I'm Sarah Black and I'm about to drink too much coffee and I don't care" way. I had to make more coffee because I was struck this morning, for the first time in a long time, with the inspiration to ask some more questions of my twentysomething self. And, one cannot feasibly think clearly enough about deep philosophical, life-changing questions without at least a second pot of coffee. Naturally.

It is challenging as a contemporary twentysomething to see the success of your friends who are moving up corporate ladders (seemingly happily), buying new cars, getting married, having babies and not compare your life to theirs.

As those words escaped my eighteen-year-old mouth, I simultaneously soaked them in to remember and ignored them. I was on my way to college the following month, and had a plan to study English. On the surface that looks like I might be chasing a dream of writing. But, the reality is, I chose English because (it was my highest score on the ACT and) it was more useful than getting a degree in acting. True story. I actually got a lot of negative kickback from high school teachers and directors that I had worked with begging for a reason for my decision. Simply put, I told them it was a pipe dream and I had no cause to believe that I would be successful in acting.

Within the first month of school, all of the business kids, the marketing majors, the educations snobs were asking me what I was planning on doing with that degree in plain-ole English Studies. I joked it would be useful to have a mastery of my native tongue. They giggled and asked "But, seriously." But seriously. I had to find something to label myself. I wanted something impressive. Something to shut those fucking suburban kids up with their superiority complexes and "holier-than-thou who does not haveth a plan" attitudes. So, at eighteen, I had to make a decision of what to do with the rest of my life. I aced some Political Science classes and started scrounging for labels to throw on my major and now minor fields of study. I realized that more often than not, kids with my academic background went to law school. That sounded prestigious. I liked the ring of it. Okay, I'll go to law school with it.

I never had a passion for law. I had a passion for arguing and being correct. That was close enough, right? Wrong. When it came time to take the LSAT, I was part of my school's award-winning mock trial team. We kicked ass. And, not to brag, but I won personal awards at every single event we attended all the way up to the final regional rounds for the Midwest. You'll never guess what I was winning awards for. Acting. I was scoring the highest in the majority of rounds I competed in because I was putting on a good show on the witness stand pretending to be characters involved in the case. I was a shit attorney. I did some prosecution work for the team, but I only scored high because I gave the opening statement- I was storytelling. I was a convincing storyteller, so I scored high. But, when it came time for me to do a cross-exam, I froze. I sucked. I didn't know how to think like a lawyer. I practiced enough to know what I was supposed to look like, but if someone threw me off, I was done for. No more acting. No more composure. Just shaking hands and inarticulate questions. I couldn't think like those law-school kids. I can think on my feet, I cannot think like a lawyer on my feet. I opted out of taking the LSAT.

I should add at this time in my life, I was having crippling panic attacks. My hair was falling out. I was seeing a counselor. And, I was trying desperately to not fail my long-distance relationship. I was a mess. The day I sat in my counselor, Eric's, office and said "I don't think I want to take the LSAT or go to law school," it was like a million bricks were lifted from my shoulders and I had new clarity. Eric looked at me a little stunned, because it was all I had been talking about. I never shut up about mock trial, or the LSAT, or law school, or how I couldn't wait to go to UW Madison. I had my heart set on that beautiful place. He was the first person I told, officially, that I wasn't going. I am sure I told Brittany and my boyfriend. But I hadn't told my parents, my team, my coaches, my academic advisors. I had one more semester of college left, and I just changed my mind.

I made what I call, "the smart choice" and didn't change majors, minors, or direction with my undergrad. I was slated to graduate early with a stunning GPA and immaculate credentials. I finished in December 2012 ten days after my twenty-second birthday. The following four months proved to be the most difficult time in my life to date.

By January I had landed a corporate proofreading job in Iowa City. I couldn't physically bear the thought of working as a paralegal. Even tough I was insanely qualified with internships and experience coming out of my ass, I hated it. It physically made me ill to think about working in law. I am sure this was all just my brains way of saying it's not the right choice in response to the negative association I attached to studying law and law school. I had attached it to one of the more challenging times in my life. I couldn't see my self happy if I were involved with law. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

One month and five days after graduation, I was living with a stranger on the west side of Iowa City working for a company that developed and distributed standardized tests for schools across the US. When I applied for the job, I thought it was a proofreading job for textbooks. I had no idea that I would be working with standardized tests. I was always good at test taking. I am a fantastic standardized tester. But that does not mean that I approve of them. The whole system is fucked, but that's a rant for another time.

So, flash to me in a moral dilemma proofing tests for children across the country to be compared to other children by. I hated what I represented. But, even more so, I hated that the company was owned by British overlords. I have absolutely nothing against the Brits. I love you guys, with your accents, the Spice Girls, cool flag, and prince George. But, when a company that size (cleverly, I'll admit) has convinced America as a whole, that the product they have developed is necessary, accurate, and the only way to know how smart or normal your children are is taking a significant chunk of tax payers money (because where else would any school district get he money for these "required" tests) and sending it overseas to the mother company, it felt so morally devoid, I found myself depressed. I felt like I had sold my soul and my morals to have a job and pay rent. Phase two of playing the game of life and losing my mind: Complete.

I quickly found myself in a counselors office again weeding my way through emotions. The thing that forced me to see her was losing my dog. I couldn't take much more between the chaos of overhauling my life and selling my soul for a job, let alone losing the love of my life. It was a dark time. I drank a lot. I was wasted almost every night for nearly three months; alone. I distinctly remember pulling into my parking spot after getting home from work and sitting in my car for an hour screaming, crying, trying to talk myself out of being upset and trying to tell myself I didn't need to drink. The only thing that got me out of that car was the promise of the bottle of rum sitting on my counter. I got wasted again.

It didn't take long for JoAnna, my new counselor to help me. She seemed so reasonable and so smart. Everything she said made sense. I was being ridiculous, but she understood why and how and never once passed judgment on me. I quit drinking, hit the gym, and got a new job waitressing. I loved it for a while. And JoAnna and I were working on a new plan: Where to take my life. We agreed that I should go to grad school- but what to study? We agreed I would make a great teacher and so it was. I took the GRE (rocking that standardized test's ass) and had everything in order to finish applying and enroll. Some things came up and JoAnna had to quit counseling in our area and move. I was devastated, but convinced I knew where to go and that I could do it without her.

My waitressing job took a sour turn and I was no longer getting along with management. I was still struggling to pay bills between that job and working retail at the mall. Admittedly, working retail was a bad idea for me. Because I wasn't drinking as much anymore, I wanted to buy things. I spent significantly more money at the store than I made working there.

In January, I was offered a unique opportunity. If there is one bit of advice I can give anyone, it is to take your resume everywhere. You never know who will pick it up and call you. I have gotten my last two jobs by simply handing someone my resume and asking them to pass it along to anyone who might be interested. They were interested and so was I.

I took a low-paying offer from this new company just to get a steady paycheck and to not have to work two jobs anymore. I was still poor, but at least I was happy. Within a month of starting my new job, there were talks of moving me up the ladder. This was it. I was just like everyone else. Finally, a big girl, with a big girl job. I abandoned the grad school plans to see where this new career went, knowing that my applications and scores were all good for two more years.

Ten months later, I found myself talking money; reasonable money. I was asking significantly less than the market for the position they were asking me to jump through hoops to get. I had been working hard for ten months to find out that they never intended to pay me appropriately. Lesson in life to everyone: Never work for less than you're worth.

I began yet another quarter-life crisis reevaluation of my life.

In addition to feeling a bit insulted by the would-be maybe offer (if I got my personality in order enough for them- another long story), my personal life took a crazy turn and I was no longer immune to the strong arm of the law.

I was arrested for a DUI on a Monday night. I know what you're thinking. She clearly had alcohol issues before, so, it was just a matter of time. I want you to know that, even though this was a difficult time, the night I was picked up was the first night in a while that I had gone drinking and I had three beers in five hours. I was clearly not going hard. I hadn't slept in two days and hadn't eaten in well over twelve hours. Hungry plus tired plus beer equals a douchy cop cuffing you for going over the speed limit. Life lesson taken from this: .09 can ruin your life as you know it.

I was released from jail the following morning and called into work. I'll tell you about jail in another post. But, the experience of Johnson County Lockup was enough for me to call in to work, not to mention I now had to find an attorney and start figuring out how deep I had gotten myself in.

Certain that they would fire me over the issue (because my mug shot was plastered all over the local paper's website- lucky me), I started planning for the worst. I mentally game planned for losing my job and having to move home. Verbatim, from jail, I told my mother "I'm going to lose my job. Get ready for me to move into your basement." That day, that was the worst thing I could think of to have happen to me; to have to move home.

But, to come to terms with what I thought was the inevitable heat death of my universe (moving home), I began to see the silver linings in the situation. I was already struggling with money every single month- and the DUI bills on top of that now would make regular life impossible, especially with the measly promotion wages that were discussed in meetings with my superiors. It was a huge transition period in my friends lives. All of them were getting married and having babies and all of them were at least three to four hours away. At least once a month, I was travelling to see them. If I moved home, I would have fewer expenses, I would be closer to my friends and their life-changing happenings, and I could use the whole situation as a restart and finally do what I could have done all along: Comedy.

The night I was picked up was, oddly enough, my first stand-up performance at an open mic in Iowa City. It was exhilarating, fun, freeing, and I felt more myself on stage telling half-truths about my sex life than I ever did wearing pantyhose and heels in the office every morning. This was it. the sign I should have been following the entire trip through adulthood. I, finally, had the opportunity to follow my dream and I couldn't pass it up.

Through many "conversations" (I use quotes because they were more like arguments) with my parents, I convinced them and myself that this was the best bet for me. I immediately hit the ground running and actively looking for work in my parents' home town.

It has never taken me more than a month to find a new job when I put all the effort into it; which is a blessing and a curse. I am glad I have such turn-around time on employment, but it makes me look unstable as an employee to hop around so much. I take my chances and am always sure to include several reasons for why I am leaving my current job to pursue the next one. I am very convincing on paper and in person. I interview like a champ. I have yet to have an interview and not get the job for which I applied; with one exception- a job that required me to drive a company vehicle that I applied for after my DUI. They said they wanted me to try again in March when the restrictions were lifted. So, I could technically have a pretty good shot at the job still. I had great connections there.

But, I digress. I hit the ground running and within a week I had an interview lined up for a restaurant/brewery manager position in Rockford. If you know me now, you know that I took the job, and I LOVE it. I moved in with my parents, licenseless, broke, and hoping world war three wouldn't ensue because the short trips to my parents' house over the six years prior had not been all that amicable and I was clearly emotionally vulnerable and liable to take it out on them. We were all best in small doses; a day here, a night there. Months would feel like an eternity.  I felt insanely low. Like I thought I knew what rock bottom would feel like and I was already lower than that.

Yet, here I sit in my parents kitchen blogging. I usually reserve blogging for when I am truly inspired by something or have another twentysomething problem to talk through with the wall that is the internet. But this time, I think I have it figured out.

I did an open mic last week and there is a decent chance the opportunity could become a paying gig in the next month or so. Talk about instant gratification. Just a few months after deciding that I'd rather be poor chasing my dreams than poor pussyfooting around "yessirs" and  corporate kissassing, I have a real opportunity and a great first step to seeing my dreams come into fruition.

Remember how I said I have no regrets? I still don't. Not a single one of these things do I regret; except maybe not wearing underwear the night they arrested me. Going commando in the orange jumpsuit felt a little more white trash than I ever expected to feel. Again, I'll tell you all that later. But, had I known that I could be good in performing and that I'd be poor either way, I may have chosen to go in to an acting major. But, I may have spent my life wondering if I should have tried the corporate drone lifestyle. Now that I know for sure, without a doubt, and I can give you more than a million examples of why, I am not cut out for the corporate world, I have no regrets and no fears in chasing my dream of comedy.

Maybe I will fail. Maybe I'll be a one hit wonder in the comedy scene and you'll never hear of me again or see my name in lights. I'm okay with that. Because I tried doing what I didn't love and felt like I was failing. I was always unsure of myself and job and I knew I was failing my heart because I didn't pine for that life. Now it's my chance to fail at what I do love and come to peace with all of it and say, "At least I tried." I don't regret. I don't ask "if." I do.

Then again, maybe when I move to the city in the spring and start taking classes at Second City, something more will happen and my little dreams that are coming to true will feed the big dreams and I will end up writing for SNL or acting in an improv group or writing the next Bossypants (I love you, Tina Fey, oh so much). I will never know if I could be great if I don't try. So, here we go in the next chapter of my twentysomething life. It is bound to be filled with more questions and more blogs.

Lord help us all.

Love always,
Sarah