I can confidently say, up until about 5 years ago, I didn’t know who the fuck I was.

As a person.

Like that metaphor in Runaway Bride (shut up, you totally saw it) when Julia Roberts realized she had no idea who she really was based on the simple fact that she didn’t even know how she liked her eggs to be cooked?

That was me.  Only not the whole egg thing.  I don’t really like eggs because I feel like they taste like what a hymen looks like.

So, I guess if I had to find my direction in life based on eggs, it would be something like, over easy and not hymen flavored.

Which sounds confusing.

You see my problem.

Even in high school I was fucking Sybil.  Like those girls who constantly morph into a different lifestyle based on the type of boy they are dating.  I did that.  Only, without the boy.

In college, I held seven internships.

Seven.

Event Planner intern.  Intern to the Ohio House Minority Leader.  Intern at a Law Firm.  Intern and summer reporter for an ABC News affiliate.  Radio Station intern.  Intern at a local newspaper.  And, lastly, Public Relations intern.

I came home from college and worked at a summer camp.  Because it was fun.

I kissed girls.  Because they were pretty and tasted like candy.

And I thought, ok, I can do this, this can be my life.

I can spend my days hungover in a lifeguard stand, and my evenings doing  jello shots and dating women.

And, I would have, except Andy was all, Jesus Brittany, I want to ask you to marry me but you are freaking me the fuck out, seriously.

And, I was like, dude, I know, but I am afraid you will hate me because I will never be a productive member of society.

And, I’m not.

Unless you count breeding.

Or making sound effects when I open jars.

Or predicting when really old people will die.

Or quoting lines from Old School.

Because if that awesome stuff equaled success, I’d be mayor right now.

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