The (Terrifying but) Great Escape

Washington, DC is a one-horse town. It's Hollywood for ugly people. Its residents have no style. It's an unfriendly and transient city. So here's the rub: I love it here. I was born here, raised here and scurried right back to this cold, style-impaired city right after I graduated from college. I have a large network of friends that revel in scatological humor; my parents live right across the river and feed me gourmet meals every Sunday night; my scooby snack of a boyfriend lives here along with my older brother and pregnant sister. And did I mention that my parents just bought a golden retriever puppy? So naturally, the thought of moving away from this area leaves me suffering from sporadic heart palpitations, night sweats, dry eyes, itchy palms, and halitosis. What's worse is that I'm leaving my cozy little comfort zone for the city that defines Bizarre on an hourly basis: New York.

But I have to go.

I want to be a writer. Specifically, I want to be a movie critic and feature writer. After 3 years of living in D.C. and hopping from sales job to sales job, I finally reached boiling point. Most people my age have no idea what they want to do with their lives. I know what my passion is, but I'm still sitting at a clutter-filled desk (at a newspaper. Oh, the irony!) making cold calls to human resources executives and convincing them to run their employment ads in my newspaper. What the hell am I doing here?

So in mid-December, my father (also a writer)(who is certain he knows exactly what to do with my life)(that is, to follow in his footsteps) gave me a call and said, "the deadline for Columbia's journalism school is the beginning of January." This is not the first time my dad has mentioned Columbia, but it was the first time I listened to the words that came out of his mouth, imagined them transmitting from his phone receiver to my ear, and actually processed what he was saying. I'm fairly certain that he assumed I would hang up the phone and get right back on gofugyourself.com, cursing my pathetic existence. Actually, he doesn't know that I'm a gofugyourself addict, but you get the picture. His wishful thinking became my new obsession and within the hour I had filled out an online application, contacted 3 accomplished recommendation-writers and scripted 4 humiliation-inducing drafts of a 750-word essay "about anything."

And then things got weird; they actually accepted me.

Needless to say, my father was thrilled. The conversation that followed:
Daddio: "what do you think it was that got you in?"
Shocked Daughter: "Ummm....my major in creative writing?"
D: "No..."
SD: "Newspaper experience in college?"
D: "No...."
SD: "Okay Dad, I give up. What was it?"
D: "I think it was your blog of movie reviews. It showed initiative while displaying your writing abilities."
SD: "Maybe you're right...."
D: "Wasn't it my idea for you to start that blog?"

Seriously. He's irrepressible....

...and I'm really going to miss the guy.