The chief editor just told another editor her hair looks good in a sidepart. "Less fluffy than usual". Fashion, baby.

The hours. They're long. I mean, they start pretty late - I need to adjust my system to having time at home before nine am that is not spent sleeping. Otherwise, I'm so early that it doesn't even matter when I miss my subway stop due to composing risky texts. I even had time for a quick picture of the picturesque water situation at the wrong station. And today I got let out early because the editors were having prosecco anyways and were so kind to not make me work either.


The work. The first day, I was only packing boxes of specific clothes I had to find off racks of stuff that is hung in absolutely no apparent or even hidden kind of order. I swear I have had every single one of those items in my hand and I still can't remember where anything is. I'm itching to flipping reorganize that whole room in every way possible. Alphabetically, by use, length and color. Just give me a week. That day, I seriously wondered whether I am making enough of a difference in this world by doing this, but I blame those thoughts on my aching feet and back (a bit of existencial pleading never hurts. It makes your skin glow). Anyways, my tasks get more fun each day and right now I'm happily cutting out little purses and hats to go with some flatlays. If only the phone would never ring - I don't have my phone voice on spot yet, so I refuse to answer even though that's probably something an intern would do. But seriously, how do some people sound like they've been trained in a calming callcenter for years when they're speaking on the phone? It must be a God-given gift.

The desk. It's big and it's next to a huge window and there's all the good stuff on it (magic scotch tape and markers and little post its of which I use twelve a day just because I can). And a mac computer - when did those take over the world? And most importantly, why? Nothing follows intuition and everything's on the wrong side. The only positive thing about it is the giant screen behind which no one sees me checking my texts while I chat to the editors about annoying people who are on their phone all of the time.

I wish I could show you a picture of my precious paper cutting work but I believe I signed something like "I won't publish anything I see or hear" that sounded pretty serious.
Good thing I'm not a vlogger then.

Did I just laugh out loud to the TV or was I just thinking laughter? Is this what living alone feels like?

Hope you're good.

Love,

Rosy Smith

You know what, I actually prefer being permanently annoyed over being permanently crying -it's just less messy.

Having said that and brought everyone into a sunshiny mood, let's talk about the latest developments in the moving department!

My dad has gotten me this sweet book with hidden spots to visit in Hamburg so that I won't be totally lost on what to do on weekends. One of the first things I noticed about it, aside from the delicious paperbag smell (yeah, I'm a book smeller. Where are my fellow people?) was the cutesy layout with hairlines and vibrant blue divider pages which is exactly what we've been talking about at such length it beat eternity in design class this year. And I immediately saw it! I guess I must've learned something after all (make room for the collective breath of disbelief).



I need to keep buzzin' for various reasons, so I spent a nice half hour scouting out the nearest pizza delivery services, comparing their respective price/offer situation to one another and looking for something similar to a redbox (I need to have something playing in the background when I'm alone so I don't start talking to myself. I mean I would read, but that's harder to do while cooking/cleaning/working than watching TV).

It's the next day and it's so sunny and I feel very youtuber-y, sitting outside "working" (Youtubers probably work, I'm just watching vlogs and drinking pineapple juice. I do wear a hat and huge flower sunglasses, though.), so that's more intruiging, right?

I went to an office supply store this morning, along with what felt like hundreds of parents with their kids, ticking of the back to school lists. Me on the other hand, being a non-working lazeball for another ten days, aimlessly wandered around looking at random glitter pens. My loveliest friend (she's back from Europe, yay) pointed out that I probably won't need to bring my own supplies to work at a magazine where the product's made out of paper; however, I actually like to have notebooks and paperclips and markers around me wherever I go. (I just watched two minutes of an episode of Private Practice, I know neither the storyline nor what happened in this episode, but I'm on the verge of crying. That's effective screenwriting.) Okay, I got a stapler. It's pink. But I realize I don't know the secret way to actually put the staples in. Life is full of surprises.

Oh oh, I decided I will make use of public libraries, firstly because I recently rewatched Sex And The City The Movie and Carrie did it and made it look boheme, and also because of the living alone / talking to myself situation that requires lots of books. Since I can't take many from home (and have read those so often I constantly get déja-vu), lending just comes in handy.

Okay, so we're slowly entering the next phase, which is titled "putting stuff in boxes". Goodness. See you then.

Love,

Rosy Smith

First off, this is an old picture, but there simply are no nice ones of me this summer that don't involve a cat or a couch. Also, you are now a witness of the only time I ever went hiking and had the opportunity to meaningfully look back on a path.

My arm looks weird there.

Anyways, there's not much time left until I leave for Hamburg and I have not prepared a thing. Besides buying myself some really cool shoes, oh and some businessy pants; see, I had that impulse to go out and buy myself somethin' pretty, so I hit the stores all alone. It was a lovely, hot day, and I wore a tan mini skirt and a white crop top and my trusty chunky sandals (to kinda balance out the unwashed ponytail I was sporting. You know the drill). And then this man came up to me and told me I looked "mindblowing" and if I wanted to be an escort. Or, I'm not quite sure on this, if I wanted to hand out business cards for an escort service. Either way, I wasn't exactly falling over with excitment, so I told him "my parents do not want me giving my number away to strangers" (which, you know, is technically not even a lie) and he got all huffed up and walked out, which is always a sign of true professionalism if you ask me. However, it was the very same store I got my pants in, so it was all good.

But aside from a big suitcase full of clothes, there appears to be lots of extra stuff that I need to think of bringing with me to settle into the apartment (did I mention the apartment? It's nice and anonymous, just the way I like it). Like, a kitchen scale. And just before I was looking at a pile of folded towels and wondered if the guy who usually lives there owns a laundry basket. Who thinks of laundry baskets? I probably will not, ever again, unless I write that down.

So, when do I actually start piling everything into boxes? Do I even have enough boxes? Also, which set of candles am I taking? See, I have been gifted decorative lights and strings and such on almost every gift appropriate occasion and I couldn't possibly set them all up in my childhood room, so now's the time to actually go through with an interior concept. I mean, as far as that's possible witout changing the furniture, 'cause I'm guessing the guy who usually lives there would mind a bit.

I'm so ready to start packing and get it over with. I also need to pencil in some time to cry about being away from home as well as teaching my cat how to skype, so we better start sooner than later!

Start the countdown, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith