GIVE ME YOUR MONIES

I'm working on something.

No, it isn't anything I'll get paid for.  Because, you know, when you're unemployed it's best to devote your time to activities that won't make you money.  But, what I'm working on is probably the only thing that is keeping me from throwing on my trusty kimono, grabbing Vera (my Katana), and disemboweling myself on my kitchen floor.  Yes.  I have a Katana.  I take a samurai sword class.  I should list that on my resume, "THE ABILITY TO MURDER YOU IF YOU DON'T HIRE ME".

You're going to start seeing a webcomic on this blog.  I have a friend, Violet, she lives in New Orleans and she is crazy, dark, funny, quasi-suicidal, and unemployed.  Violet likes to make art.  In an effort to not take our own lives in despair over the state of our own miserable existence and also as a way of ensuring we are spending even less time searching for gainful employment, we have decided to collaborate and create a webcomic.  We work together on a story, I write the words, Violet draws the pictures, and together we have birthed something dark and scary but, hopefully amusing (and we didn't even have to get an episiotomy!!!).  Your going to wish you didn't click that link.

The first installment is forthcoming.

In the meantime, you'll just have to put up with me telling you about how my butcher is trying to use my unemployment to get me to marry him.

My butcher really wants to bone me.  I've known this for a while.  He offered me a lifetime of free meat (I'm still not entirely clear on if this was the meat in the case or... you know, his penis) in exchange for my hand in marriage about 2 months ago.  At the time I laughed demurely and took my cold-cuts (ignoring the fact that he gave me an extra quarter of a pound for free).  I never should have told him that I'm out of work.

I'm reasonably certain that he can smell my desperation.  He seems keenly aware of the fact that I am terrified of becoming a mole person.  I'm usually at the grocery store every day, every other day at least (living alone means food goes bad quickly, and I can't be wasting one ounce of freeze-dried tofurky bacon... I'm just kidding, I can't afford that... I don't want my spam going bad).  Every day, I see my butcher and he asks me if I've found a job.  Every day I tell him "No... not yet" and his eyes light up.  He delights in my joblessness.

"I'm tellin' ya Princess, if you was wid me, you wouldn't NEVAH hafta look for work.  I'd treat you like a queen.  I got a nice big apartment, we could get all da best cutsa meat, I know how ya like ya poik tendahloin.  You could go shoppin' all day and I'd just like ta come home 'n' look at ya lookin' pretty."

I giggle and tell him that I have a boyfriend, I'm quite happy, but thanks for the offer.

Not long ago he started saying "You'll come around!" every time I would say this.  It didn't get to me at first, but as the calendar pages fall away, I'm finding that this is affecting me more and more.  I'm not finding myself attracted to him or anything... I need money, but he's a 400 lb Samoan from the Bronx... and he hated on Breesus once.

What's worrying me is the tone in his voice.  It's become menacing.  At first I thought I was crazy, but lately I've been noticing some pretty bizarre things: what appeared to be a 400lb Samoan hiding behind a light post on my way home, an errant butcher's apron hanging on the hook on my bathroom door, my favorite cuts of meat appearing in my fridge with bows on them, and other odd things like that.

Most recently, I'm pretty sure that he drugged my roast chicken and impregnated me.  Eh... maybe it's all in my head, but I don't know who else would have scrawled "Having my baby, what a lovely way of saying how much you love me" on my bedroom wall in pork blood.

Anyway, I'm gonna go read that pregnancy test... look for the comic that Violet and I wrote, should appear in the next day or so.

I wake up every morning between seven and eight am, stumble bewildered and blind from my bedroom, push my dogs out of my crotch, and fall asleep on the toilet for about 10-15 minutes.  I take as long as possible in the bathroom in the mornings because I know that the minute I open the door again I will be assaulted by a barrage of jumping and yipping spewing forth from the gaping maws of two oppressively affectionate dogs. I throw on the most hideous assortment of mismatch gym clothes and take the hell beasts out to shit. My attire and bed head really help differentiate me from all of the people that are obviously headed to work. My neighbors are pretty nice, and they usually say hi and ask how I'm doing, though this has begun to become less frequent. It's probably because my response has become a snarled "Unemployed, fuck you very much."

After taking my office-mates (I feel like this is healthier than calling my dogs "my babies") out for a morning piss I head back home, feed them, start my coffee pot, and cry in the shower for about half an hour. The nice thing about doing work from home is that the dress code is pretty casual. I emerge from the shower, gulp down a cup of coffee, and while I am still wearing my bath towel I look over the job posting sites of places I want to work to see if they have any new openings.

If they don't, I stay naked for the next several hours and convince myself that I'm dying of a horrible disease that I see featured on an episode of Dr. Oz or a rerun of House.  (warning, NEVER google Morgellons Disease)

 If they do, I become excited. I step away from the computer and get dressed while I contemplate the thoughtful cover letter I am going to compose. I imagine the delight on the face of the HR rep that will eventually open my email.

"AT LAST!" She will exclaim "We've finally found the right person! This girl is obviously the key to our organization's success!"

Having dressed myself, I go into the kitchen and inject coffee directly into my eyeballs.  I am finally ready to write my epic job application.

I do a little internet research on the company I am applying to, the department I'm writing to, the position itself, and I do full background checks on my potential supervisors to determine if there is any readily available blackmail material. I use my basic cover letter template and modify it to show that I understand the challenges that the organization faces and how I am the right solution to their particular problem. I am careful not to say "You have problems. I'm the only person that can save your sorry ass."

It takes me about an hour (maybe a little more) to complete an application, review it, and send it off.  Feeling proud of myself, I take a look at craigslist postings and apply for about ten more positions at places that can't afford to pay me enough to buy shoes (to be fair, I have a REALLY expensive shoe habit). By this point it's about lunch time and I need a sandwich.  While I eat my lunch I think about exactly how much it is costing me... maybe I should have used less cheese.

I then check my email every five minutes for the next 5 hours.  Every time I hit "refresh" and don't see any communication from the amazing job I applied for that morning, I feel more and more sick.  Finally it's 5 o'clock (in California) and I exclaim loudly to my bewildered dogs as I rip off my bloody clothes (did I mention that every time I don't have an email I open a vein?) "QUITTIN' TIIIIME!!!"

I then proceed to get drunk.  I get the kind of drunk that you only get when you are alone.  The kind of drunk that ends with me passed out upsidedown on my papasan chair, naked, with a dog sleeping on my chest.  Sometimes in my drunken stupor I fill out a few more job applications.  I feel like it's my gift to the HR departments of everywhere I don't want to work.  At least they can look at something and go "Wow.  At least my life isn't as bad as this."


Eventually my dog farts in my face and I wake up, stumble into my bedroom, set my alarm, and as I drift off to sleep I have the cruelest thought of all: "Maybe tomorrow will be a better day."

Since becoming an unemployed bum I have made the decision to stick to my normal work schedule hours, which involves waking up early enough that my eyes feel like they are bleeding when I roll out of bed.  This serves a two fold purpose:

1. It keeps me in the "habit" of business hours so that in 10 months, when I finally get a job, it won't be such a shock to wake up early. 
2. It reminds me how much I hate myself for not having a job to go to.

My coping mechanism for early morning eye bleeding is copious amounts of coffee so strong that the hair on your chest becomes sentient and decides to conquer the rest of your body hair.  About halfway into my second pot of meth coffee, I finally figured out how I'm going to make money.  The idea came to me after seeing that my blog has two "followers".

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to start a cult.  Think about it!  It's brilliant!  I'm charismatic!  I've always been good at convincing people to do things that go against their better intuition.  How hard would it be to convince a group of people to sign over all of their worldly possessions to me and then take their own lives?

I googled "how to start a cult" and found this handy step-by-step guide!


Step 1: Decide on a belief system. Cult members like to have something to follow and devote their lives. Common topics include obscure Biblical passages, space aliens and the belief that centers on the next Messiah.

I thought long and hard about mystical beings, religious dogma, and the next Messiah and came up with the best mystical being for my cult to follow: my pug.  Let's be honest, the fact that pugs have survived for hundreds of years is a mystery to EVERYONE.  They have no depth perception, their eyes look in different directions, they have serious breathing problems, if their wrinkles aren't cleaned regularly their faces get infected, and to top it all off my pug also happens to be an epileptic.  The only way that she could possibly be living is because of mystical powers.

So, step one: Check.  I have the basis for my cult.  My pug is the next Messiah and commands all to give up their worldly possessions and follow her in becoming so relaxed that you too will have skin loose enough to pull up over your own skull.

Step 2: Set up a compound and recruit members. The compound ideally is set on a large plot of land in a rural location. Draw members from other marginalized groups--outcasts make the perfect cultists.

That's easy.  I have a friend whose family owns a huge amount of land in upstate new york.  It's perfect.  There's a barn, fields, and a huge house with many bedrooms.  I'm sure her parent's wouldn't mind if I borrowed it for a few months to lure everyone into a state of complacency and then gently suggest that their Pugssiah would like them to end their own lives.  And they know me well enough to know that I won't leave a mess behind, I'll pay for a darn good clean up crew.

As far as who I'll recruit, I think I'll go with hipsters.  There's a couple of reasons for this:

• They are already used to pretending to be poor, despite the fact that their parents pay for everything.  They won't mind living meagerly in a compound and they'll be able to give me all that money they get from their parents.
• They will totally be down with following the teachings of an ugly dog.  They will mistakenly call it "ironic".
• NO ONE WILL MISS THEM WHEN THEY ARE GONE.

Step 2 ACCOMPLISHED.


Step 3: Demand that cult members disavow all other belief systems. Cultists must completely buy into the doctrine of the cult they join. Insist that members not publicly display any doubts about the validity of the cult leader and teaching.

Hipsters have no belief system.  They will love insisting to other "misguided" people that it is just as rational for them to follow a pug as it is for others to follow a guy that was nailed to 2x4s and came back as a zombie.

Step 4: Create and live by a preset system of social norms. Typical society doesn't appeal to a cult's members, so take their flexibility and run with it. Allow the leader to practice polygamy or instruct everyone to sleep on a bed of nails. Shun technology or live on a diet of lemonade and licorice.

Oh my god.  Can you see why hipsters are PERFECT for this???  I will insist that they shave their entire bodies (I don't think I can stand to live in a sea of handle bar mustaches), I will make them all wear business suits (which they will find ironic and therefore LOVE), and have them live on a diet of non-organic hot dogs.

Step 5: Sever ties with the outside world. Closing the lines of communication between cult members and their families on the outside lessens the risk of being deprogrammed. Eliminating contact also allows cult leaders to tightly control the amount of information members get about world events.

Here's where I run into my first real road block.  I haven't quite figured out how I am going to get the iphones out of the hands of the hipsters.  They are all going to want to tweet and blog about the goings on in the cult.  However, I'm starting to think this isn't such a bad thing.  Since so many New York hipsters have followers in small podunk towns, they may be able to convince them that following the Pugssiah is what they should all be doing.

So, that's the plan for my cult!  Now to create and disseminate some good old fashioned propaganda.  Anyone up for helping me to put posters up in Williamsburg this weekend?  IT WILL PLEASE PUGSSIAH.

In his book Guerrilla Tactics in the New Job Market Tom Jackson asserts that "...the key ingredient in a successful worklife is having work that lets you do for pay what you would choose for play."

Doesn't that sound great?  What's even better is that I know exactly what I want to do!  I want to be working in a career in non-profit development/fundraising, preferably for a higher education institution, large medical institution, or large arts institution.  So why do I find myself writing sentences like:

"On a more personal note, I feel extremely passionate about the importance of expressing dogs' anal glands and educating others on the importance of doing so.  I am confident that my experience and my drive will make me an excellent member of your anal gland expressing team."


Okay... maybe not quite like that, but you get the general idea. Why?  BECAUSE I LOVE MONEY.

Everyone loves money.  So, why do we pretend that our job search is anything other than a search for money?  Sure, it would be great if we could all make money by doing what we love.  But, who is going to pay me to eat awesome food, go to shows, and have sex with my boyfriend?  Well... I could probably find someone to pay me to do those things, but that would feel dirty.


I wish I were able to make some big revelation in this post that everyone didn't already know, but honestly I'm just feeling kind of disgusted with the level of lying that has to be done in order to keep myself in ramen and water.

To Whom it May Concern:

I am currently unemployed and living in New York City. I really need a job. I had a job, but it really sucked so I applied for another one, was made an offer, but because I can't remember exactly which months I worked at my part time job in college, my offer was rescinded. This has resulted in my current jobless state.

New York has a way of eating the unemployed, and I'm really trying to avoid that.

If I don't find gainful employment soon, I will be kicked out of my apartment and will be homeless. As summer is coming soon and I am very pale, this is not ideal for me. I would probably have to live in the subway tunnels with all of the mole people, and they scare me.

Here some highlights from my Resume:

EDUCATION:

I have a degree in classical vocal music performance and even completed one semester of grad school at one of the best conservatories in the world. Do you need someone that is capable of analyzing Stravinsky's Petrushka, showing how it is his first foray into modernism and how it reflects an increasing movement towards dissatisfaction and darkness in classical music and modern ballet? I'm your girl.

I took a class on Existentialism in college and can write you a paper on the existential themes in the film "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". That's worth at least 40K a year with benefits, right?

Also, if you need someone to analyze your "god image", I can do that too. I took a class on Psychology and Religion and we spent a few weeks on Jung and what people's drawings of god mean... here's mine. I'll analyze it for you in our interview.
WORK EXPERIENCE:

Here's why you're really going to want to hire me. I have held every type of job imaginable and most of them for a year or less. I was a manager at blockbuster in college. Don't ask me when, I was pretty drunk the whole time and can no longer remember the exact dates of my employment... this has caused problems for me (see above).

I worked as a tele fundraiser as part of my work study in college. That's a fancy way of saying that I called alumni of my liberal arts college and harassed them for money that they don't have. To be fair, I was actually pretty good at this. I've always been good at convincing people to give me money, maybe the gun helped.

Most recently I've been working as a secretary for a little three person office in Manhattan. My job was so important that when I quit they decided to eliminate the position entirely, so that will give you some indication of how much time I had actual work to do and how much time I spent on facebook.

OTHER SKILLS:

I am proficient in Italian, French, and German. Grant it, my vocabulary is that of someone that lived in the 1850s, as all of my knowledge comes from Opera scores. But, you will find that my communication is very poetic.

I give pretty decent blowjobs, and in another week or so will have very little shame.

I look forward to meeting you in person, if there is anything you need in the meantime, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Unemployed Manhattan Dweller