“Amelie? Amelie?! Amelie! AMELIE!”

I was scribbling in my notebook before I realized someone calling my name.
. It’s my boss.
She was standing at the doorway to my small and dinky closet office/room.

“Amelie? Are you deaf? Why do you not answer me when I call you?” scolded Charlotte Park, my boss and editor in chief for Visible magazine.

“Please finish all these invitations by 5 this afternoon, and I expect them to be mailed soon afterwards.  This is one of the greatest parties Visible Magazine is putting out so make sure your handwriting is legible.”

This is outrageous.  I mean, Char (she doesn’t want to sound like a stuck-up proper woman so she doesn’t like being called anything but this name) is an awesome boss, don’t get me wrong, but she already established this point many times already.
Supposedly this stupid party where only the “A-list” people are invited to is the most celebrated event in the social and fashion world.
You see, Visible Magazine is a high fashion, couture, music, photography, literary arts, women advice, basically anything women want out of a magazine, and it has been my dream to be editor here someday.  Or at least, just work here.

I love fashion.  Fashion is my life.  I drew dresses in my closet and felt fabrics my father has brought back home from his textile industry.  I learned how to sew, knit, hem, tailor just about anything from my mother, and I read Visible Magazine before I knew the times table.
But I digress.

So anyways, apparently I have to send out invitations to various celebrities, designers, photographers, models, editors,….anyone “famous” or worth “idolizing”.  I think its all a pile of bull if you ask me.  It’s just a bunch of stuck up s who come by to the event to get some free , get drunk, and hook up with other stuck up people.

But wait, didn’t I just say that fashion is my life, and I’ve always wanted to work at visible magazine?  Yes, all of these things are true, but I do NOT care about the people.  Designers, I think that they are geniuses.  Photographers, they are definitely note-worthy.  Models are essential for designers.  Editors are always needed.  But celebrities?  Please.  We don’t need to idolize anyone except for ourselves.  Plus, they screw over what beauty really is, on the inside.
I’m just saying that I do not feel like I need to give so much respect and care to these celebrities just because they have a fan base somewhere.  I have a fan base too.  My family and my dog, Coco Chanel.

“Amelie? Please start NOW. Instead of doodling whatever you are doodling in that horrendous notebook of yours.” Char says.

“yes m’am.  I’ll make sure these get in on time.”

“Oh, by the way, after you are done, come by my office, I have something else I need you to do.” And then she was off with her 6 inch Christian Louboutin shoes clacking away.
“Right.”
. How am I going to finish 2,000 invitations by 5p.m? Someone shoot me now in the face.  It’s already ing 1 in the afternoon, and I haven’t even taken my lunchbreak yet, and I have to study for my midterms.
It’s ok.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  
Everything is ok.
  I love my internship. I love my internship.  
Everyone has to start with the dirty work before becoming editors here.  Internships are always like this.  Crappy, filled with useless work, just for the “experience”.  I can deal with this.

DON’T THESE PEOPLE ING KNOW THAT I HAVE SCHOOL?

After about a good solid 5 minutes of ranting and ripping pages out of my notebook, I finally got a hold of myself and started the invitations.  It won’t be that bad.  If I do about 500+ per hour and I skip my lunch break, I will be able to finish them in time and have a little time to spare.

It is approximately 4:12p.m.  I have finished 1,798 invitations.  I have a bazillion papercuts and I have used 10 markers, 5 pens, and broken 3 rulers.

I love my internship. I love my internship.  I love my internship.


I finally got back to my apartment after a gruesome day of papers and envelopes.  I kicked off my Marc Jacobs ankle boots and threw myself on my bed.  My roommate was out with her boyfriend so I had the apartment to myself.
When I was lying down I started to recollect what Char was saying when I went to see her after I was done with the monster invitations.

“Amelie, recently you have been one of the most outstanding interns here and I would like you to be my representative and go be a tour guide for a special group of people.”

“I’m sorry…did you say that I am your representative?”

“yes.  It is not a job for an intern and a little chubster like you, but I can see that you are very responsible and you have worked with us for over a year.  You never had any slip ups, never called in sick, and never got drunk on the job, so I’m promoting you.  Temporarily.”

“But what I don’t get is…I’m going to be a tour guide? And I’m promoted temporarily?”

Tapping her 500 hundred dollar gold pen impatiently, Char exclaims, “Yes, you are going to be a tour guide for a group called Big Bang.  They are the most famous boy band in Korea, and they are coming here to Hollywood.”

“Are we doing a photo shoot or an editorial on them?”

“No.  One of them is a nephew of my fiancé and they are coming to America for a little vacation.”

“So….this basically has nothing to do with the magazine.”

“It has to do with me.  I hired you.  Do your job.”


I don’t understand my boss.  She is this gorgeous, intelligent, high-powered woman, yet she told me that I was to baby-sit a boy band.  Because of her lover?
There are so many things that I do not get.  First, why does she even need a man?  I’m pretty sure she is better than any man out there.  Second, why does she need to do a favor for her fiancé?  Shouldn’t it be the other way around?  Her boyfriend is a high powered financer and makes millions of dollars an hour, and also a very very attractive man, but still.  Women should always be in control.  And finally, why do I have to be a baby sitter?  Why do I always get stuck doing the dirty work for other couples?

I hate couples.  I know this is probably the green monster talking, but I hate couples.  I hate their PDA, I hate their lovey-dovey eyes, I hate their nicknames for each other, I hate every single thing about a couple.

Yeah.  It is my green monster talking.  As you probably already know, I never had a boyfriend, but now, seeing as how I will be 20 soon, I feel that I do not need one and I would be perfectly capable living with myself.  And probably 10 dogs, but still….I would not need an arrogant insufficient smelly testosterone-built gorilla boy living with me.

I do not need affection.  I do not need love.


. Where did I put that cabernet sauvignon?

I sat up from my bed and attempted to try to find the red wine I stashed somewhere in the cabinet.  I roamed around in the kitchen till I found it and I plopped on the sofa and switched on the t.v.  I started to switch the channels until…aww… there we go, I love you, my one and only.  My absolute favorite show.
So what if I like romantic comedies? I can’t help it.  It’s the hormones.

After the show was over, and I had finished a box of Kleenex from all the crying, I sulked back into my room to go to sleep.  But of course, my roommate comes in making out with her boyfriend, totally oblivious that I’m here.  Both of them start to take each other’s (more like ripping) clothes off until they finally heard my “ahem”.
They stopped, blinked a few times, reeked of alcohol, and went at it again.

They do not care if I am there to watch or not.
Wonderful.  Not only am I a lonely single with a finished red wine bottle, but I am an invisible lonely single with a finished red wine bottle.

Before their make out turned into anything worse, I quickly went into my room, and I thanked the Lord for giving me a room upstairs in our 2 story apartment.  And in case you were wondering, no, I am not rich.  Just because it is a 2 story apartment in West L.A. does not mean that we are living the Beverly hills life.  My roommate just has an extremely wealthy boyfriend (the boy that was eating her face a moment ago) who spends money like it’s like wiping your .  In other words, I live here as long as I do not get in the way of their “sessions”.  And my Marc Jacobs?  What can I say, I spend the only money I have on designer. I have to be fashionably fit for the magazine, or I would never have the job.

Wait.  Speaking of job, .  I have to go pick up those kids from the airport at 7 in the morning.  What time is it now?  HOLY .  3a.m?  

MY LIFE.