A job will not change your life.
The love of your life might change your life. You will not meet the love of your life on a Dating App. You could have met the love of your life on Myspace. But that was then and this was now.
On Friday a random man whipped out his dick at the gay bar. I was the only one who noticed. I said doyouguysseethat doyouguysseethat but by the time youguyssawthat, the random man’s member was concealed inside his palm. The experience was utterly sobering for yours truly.
You will not meet the love of your life at a gay bar full of drunk perverts. Of course, not all gays are perverts and certainly, not all perverts are gay. Still, going out drinking seems to become more and more of a hell scape.
I fantasize about posting on LinkedIn that I have officially accepted an internship with The Wagner Group, Russia’s premier private military contractor. The Wagner Group sounds much more prestigious in name compared to the US equivalent Constellis FKA Blackwater. Things don’t look much better aesthetically speaking. The Constellis logo is reminiscent of a failing private equity firm about to announce their merger with a larger and more sinister private equity firm. The Wagner Group simply appeals to my fascist sensibilities. Oh, to prance around in a fur lined bomber jacket with my Russian name embroidered on it. That’s all there is to it, right?
The love of your life probably doesn’t live in America. I must seek employment abroad, (The Wagner Group). It can’t be teaching English. First of all, no one needs to learn English and frankly, the ones who struggle the most with language retention seem to the native speakers. Certainly, one could wax poetic for hours about the decline of the American school system but I would love for someone to show me when American schools weren’t in decline. Working directly with young American minds, I often bear witness to what appears to be a general lack of critical thinking skills. This raises the age old chicken or the egg question. Perhaps critical thinking has always been a time-limited offer and we have only recently begun to demand more from people. Might it be better for everyone if we expect even less of people, that way they may run the risk of surprising us? Might we begin to practice the opposite of accessibility, so that only the truly brave/crazy/delusional venture to ask the questions?
You are no better for asking the questions. In fact, you are worse. The traveling phlebotomist shows up at my door, unannounced. I am selling five vials of my blood to a joint research venture between the FDA and the NIH in exchange for twenty five American dollars. The FDA and the NIH are probably not up to anything good with my blood but that’s out of my hands. I had the option to decline having my samples used for undisclosed genetic testing but I opted in. I figured they would probably administer said testing regardless of my approval. At least I’m being paid.
The traveling phlebotomist wants to know if I am afraid of needles. I do not fear needles. I enjoy the prolonged dull pain as it slips underneath my epidermis. I enjoy the slow pool of dark red blood as it fills the vial. I visualize the five pints of blood in my single corporeal form filling up five frosted pint glasses. I go crazy for the sterilized medical aesthetic, biohazard warnings, latex gloves in every color—all of it on my mood board. I imagine I am impressing the phlebotomist by remaining impressively cool under such circumstances. The phlebotomist wants to know why I have so many gray hairs if I am only twenty six. He says I am either very stressed or wise. I am neither, I am simply waiting to receive the email that will change my life.
I got a flat tire near the local Church of Scientology and a male Scientologist helped me put on my spare tire. I would have been so screwed if it weren’t for that guy. Allegedly, Scientologists are supposed to be overly friendly and helpful as an effort to interest you in their money laundering scheme but I have nothing but gratitude in my heart for the guy who saved my technically impaired ass that fateful day.
I’d like to think the path has been chosen for you. I’d like to think that the universe is trolling us all. It’s all pretty much out of our hands. How’s that for stoicism?
Over a year ago, in a state of sheer panic, I listed several unwanted clothing items on Depop for way below market value. Now that a whole year has gone by, someone decided to purchase one of the items, a Forever 21 denim skirt listed as vintage. I made it all the way to the post office, merely four minutes from home only to discover that the troll had provided me with an invalid shipping address. I was furious.
I hate Depop. I hate the Gig Economy. I hate Apps. I dream of a Phone with no Apps. I hate that the Future is Behind a Paywall. I wish the Future was Me Trolling the Professional Managerial Class on LinkedIn with my Wagner Group Internship Announcement. Honestly, the bit would fly right over those guy’s heads. Also, the future isn’t about me.
I am sitting on the front porch steps in my Nike tube socks peeling a Blood Orange. It is eighty degrees outside despite technically being winter. I don’t give a shit about global warming. Of course the world is ending, tell me something I don’t know…. Besides, I have much more important things to worry about like plotting the downfall of everything I hate and how to exact revenge on this Depop troll. After I pay the troll toll for shipping, I will have made a whooping -1 dollar in total sales. If it weren’t for my financial literacy and my newfound blood money, I would be in the process of going broke.
They, they the prophets of social media financial advising, say you are either in your learning phase or your earning phase. As I sit on the front porch steps munching on my Blood Orange, I get the feeling I'm in neither. I’m simply, for lack of a better term of phrase and to quote one of the great philosophers of our epoch, Kanye West—in it. I’m in it and will forever be. Till I’m not.
entirely convincing.
I think you are a rea l life genius