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.