So I've stepped out for a bit. Forgot to blog. I should have. But I didnt. So SUE me. Turns out I got this "gig" at this modeling place. Worked at one before, just not quite like this. I prayed for this job. PRAYED. For those who know me you know I never really pray for anything. Except another breath every once in a while when Im in the car with someone who's driving a little too fast, or whenever I get all stressed out and smoke too many cigarettes. But this time friends, I prayed for this job. It must have been some sort of miracle because before I could say, "Amen" I got the job and was sitting through some grueling 8 hour-a-day, two-week long training. (When I say grueling I mean like, "Biggest Loser" grueling, which is basically equivalent to ripping off your own fingernails) Listen folks, Im not gonna tell you where the place is, or WHO it is because lets just say they are big and I dont feel like having Big Brother knocking down my door anytime soon.
Needless to say, I was super ecstatic. I updated my status on Facebook like, 455 times saying how ecstatic I was. It was, in retrospect.. just a tad fucking pathetic. But 5 months later and about 7,000 models in, the place is consuming my LIFE. I mean, literally, EVERY. Waking. Moment. Of my existance. I cannot count the amount of times I have sat im my office and wished that I could go back in time to just seconds before I pushed "SEND" on my resume. Its not a bad job. Dont get me wrong.
Actually.. Scratch that. Fuck it. The job sucks. It really, realllly SUCKS. I wish there was some sort of disclosure law that would force companies into being honest with you, like brutally honest, on what you were getting yourself into before you started a job. Because this right here, this shit right here.. this is some straight up bullshit.
I have met some cool people though in interviews. I always wonder when I meet a person around my age and they are there to be "evaluated" by me, why they are there in the first fucking place. What fork in the road did they make a wrong turn on to end up sitting, twiddling thier thumbs in front of ME? It blows my fucking mind. (And then thats when I get nosey and ask a bunch of questions to try to figure it out. Lmao.) But if you follow my blog and pay attention you would know Im like, the LAST person on earth who should be scolding girls who get into trouble, or telling parents how to raise thier kids. I was a runaway. I got kicked out of an all girls school, ended up pregnant, became a stripper/go-go dancer/car show girl and spent 5 years traveling like a vagabond. I smoke, have dabbled elsewhere and make out with my girlfriends on a regular basis. I swear like a sailor and know more about gangs and prescription pills than the average person SHOULD. "Fist-pumping" is my favorite pasttime. I mean, COME ON... I am practically the EPITOMY of heathen. I live on the "other" side of the rainbow, folks... in case you care to know. Sometimes people tell me things in interviews, and Im like, Oh My God, Me Toooo! Then I snap back to reality and realize Im supposed to be Mother-Fucking-Theresa.
Let me explain what I do. So I guess girls/boys (oh and dont forget our newest division; old ladies) fill out resumes or something online, Im not really sure, but I get thier name and I call them and tell them to come in for an interview. They come in for the interview and I basically decide whether or not they should go directly into agency, or they need training. (they always need training, it's a gimmick) If they need training I tell them how much it is (It cost your SOUL, and on occasion, your first-born's too) and so on and so forth. The programs are great, dont mistake that, they are absolutely worth the money if you have a million dollars to blow along with zero confidence and need some direction in your life from a bunch of ABSOLUTELY unqualified idiots who have no direction in thiers. (Aside from thier plan of remaining skeezy sales people for life and continuing to pretend that they are somehow "better" than you) But dont expect to become famous off them. In fact, most of the jobs we get them they can get on Craigslist on their own if they were smart enough. Ive done it, so I know this for a FACT. That isnt the point though. The classes they offer are wonderful and absolutely do what they say they are going to. I guess you could say, long story short, we help Ugly Ducklings turn into Swans. We help people (girls mostly) who would normally have no chance in hell snagging a husband, learn how.
I wish they would have told me how much time and dedication it would take to effectively accomplish this BEFORE I agreed to take the job. Which is why I havent blogged. I havent done anything. I havent dyed my hair, gotten my nails done, spoke with my friends, hung out with family. I havent had time for ANYTHING. Least of all.. blogging.
I am there all day, everyday, all weekend and all night. And just when I think its over they usually have us come in on our one day off to make appointments. So fuck it lets say im literally there all the time. I dont even really like the people I work with except maybe two, because they are all so fake it makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. The people working there are either graduates of the place with over inflated egos, or what I like to call "lifers" and they think they own the joint. Walking in that place is like walking through the wardrobe into fucking Narnia. Except instead of being all beautiful and adventurous, its zombie model HELL. I wish I could go into detail but Ill wait until I find something new to publish a book on "the truth"... Lmao.
All that bullshit aside though, Im BACK! At least for a week while I contemplate whether or not I ever want to step back into the Matrix. I can honestly say at this point Id almost rather wipe someones ass 8 hours a day than go back. But we will see how I feel in 6 more days. In this economy I know people should hold onto thier jobs... but this is more like a life sentence. Im terrified one day I will walk-in and the whole place will implode and take me to some alternate reality... where Ill be like, totally trapped for the remainder of my existance. And all I will be able to hear is some stupid promotional modeling video over and over and OVER again. That is literally my GREATEST fear at this point.
Well Im going to paint my nails. Then Im going to sit on the couch and watch all the re-runs of True Blood. The new season is starting up. I need to be refreshed. Lmaoo.
10.6.10
The Infinite Monkey Theorem and My Shit Can Memory
To Whom It May Concern-
I’ve been gone. I’m sorry. I’d tell you where I’ve been, if I knew.
I’d like nothing more than to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I’d like to pull my brain out through my ear, pop it in the DVD player, sit on the couch with you, a vodka-redbull and a bowl of popcorn and see what happened; see the things my brain is busy blocking out. Or maybe it’s the vodka that blocks it all out. There is no way of knowing.
The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. The movie in my head that we’re watching has been edited by a monkey, but not that Shakespeare monkey. I have a shit-tossing, public masturbating, screaming howler monkey. He’s collected random outtakes found on a barroom floors across the city. Blasts of dialogue. Seconds of music. Bits of light. Sound and vision run sideways, backwards, not at all, skipping, skipping, skipping. Some things look familiar. A flash of a foot, cut to a hand holding a glass of vodka - it could be mine, there is no way of knowing. Jump to nothing, nothing, nothing, an unidentifiable horizon. Pan to darkness, nighttime, maybe the lights are just off. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe all of it is. There is no way of knowing.
There are some things you think you know, too. Like, a roach wandered into my microwave oven once just as I was about to warm up a biscuit. I thought, "Gotcha motherfucker!", slapped the door shut, turned it on high and I listened to him snap, crackle and pop. At the end of six minutes I opened the microwave. To my horror the biscuit had turned into a rock, but that little roach shook himself off and toddled away like it was nothing more than a fricken cockroach tanning booth. Nothing I do or say is going to change the fact that you can nuke a roach long enough to cook a hamburger and the roach couldn’t care less. I thought I knew something there. I thought it was an indisputable fact. Guess not.
Remember and know are two different animals.
I know I was born. My mother remembers it.
Here’s what I know: You can’t see the bruises and burns for the welts my own body has created. From my collarbone to my pubic bone, and every inch of skin in between, I’m covered. My face has cracked open. My cheeks, my scalp, my eyelids, even the tender skin under my eyes, dried and cracked like a desert floor.
I know Police don’t take care of people like us. We take care of us. Except when we don’t, and then you’re on your own.
I am on my own. Oh yeah, I know that, too.
My friend said she consulted a dermatologist who said she'd developed an allergy to commercial soap. I never used soap on my face again. Ever. That I remember and I know for sure.
Some things I don’t remember or know at all. My first kiss. My first date. I don’t remember a lot of my life. Not the way you remember yours.
I remember photographs of events, but not the actual event.
Sometimes I think that I made the whole thing up.
All of it.
Then, fiveten years later I run into someone who was there, in that snapshot moment and they say, Yes, that’s what happened. Yes, it was exactly like that. Or they don’t say anything because maybe they blinked too sometimes. Or they look at me like I’m crazy because they remember it a whole ‘nother way completely.
There are things I know, the way I know about Columbus or the Kennedy assassination, but I don’t technically remember, because, like I said, I wasn’t actually there.
That’s how my life has been. I blink and days will disappear. Even when I knew where I was, I wasn’t really there. I left my baggage in the lobby, but I was gone, baby, gone. Checked out. I know the stories, but they happened to that other Jessica while I watched from the back side of the looking glass. I shouldn’t be held responsible, because I wasn’t actually there.
I don’t remember not one single thing from my own eyes. I remember from the eyes of the other me, the one who stepped out, stood in the shadows, sat next to me in the clubs, lounged on the couch in the corner and watched with no reaction at all. To anything. No matter what was going down. From the safety of the shadows I watched my life just happen– the good, the bad and the ugly. Even in a room by myself, I stood in a corner, watching to see what I would do next.
Word is you remember the things that are important to you. I think I remember the things that changed me, even if they didn’t seem important at the time. I can't be sure. But either way... whether I know it or remember it, whether it's important or it's not, whether it's vodka-redbull induced or infinite shit-throwing monkey proclaimed, I've got to be sure... because I doubt brains will start coming equipped with "Ti-Vo" anytime soon.
I mean, after all, what's the point of doing anything if with a blink it dissapears? My life has been pretty fucking entertaining so far. I would like to reserve the right to watch the "Re-runs" anytime I want.
Thanks.
-Jess
I’ve been gone. I’m sorry. I’d tell you where I’ve been, if I knew.
I’d like nothing more than to know where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I’d like to pull my brain out through my ear, pop it in the DVD player, sit on the couch with you, a vodka-redbull and a bowl of popcorn and see what happened; see the things my brain is busy blocking out. Or maybe it’s the vodka that blocks it all out. There is no way of knowing.
The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. The movie in my head that we’re watching has been edited by a monkey, but not that Shakespeare monkey. I have a shit-tossing, public masturbating, screaming howler monkey. He’s collected random outtakes found on a barroom floors across the city. Blasts of dialogue. Seconds of music. Bits of light. Sound and vision run sideways, backwards, not at all, skipping, skipping, skipping. Some things look familiar. A flash of a foot, cut to a hand holding a glass of vodka - it could be mine, there is no way of knowing. Jump to nothing, nothing, nothing, an unidentifiable horizon. Pan to darkness, nighttime, maybe the lights are just off. Maybe none of it’s real. Maybe all of it is. There is no way of knowing.
There are some things you think you know, too. Like, a roach wandered into my microwave oven once just as I was about to warm up a biscuit. I thought, "Gotcha motherfucker!", slapped the door shut, turned it on high and I listened to him snap, crackle and pop. At the end of six minutes I opened the microwave. To my horror the biscuit had turned into a rock, but that little roach shook himself off and toddled away like it was nothing more than a fricken cockroach tanning booth. Nothing I do or say is going to change the fact that you can nuke a roach long enough to cook a hamburger and the roach couldn’t care less. I thought I knew something there. I thought it was an indisputable fact. Guess not.
Remember and know are two different animals.
I know I was born. My mother remembers it.
Here’s what I know: You can’t see the bruises and burns for the welts my own body has created. From my collarbone to my pubic bone, and every inch of skin in between, I’m covered. My face has cracked open. My cheeks, my scalp, my eyelids, even the tender skin under my eyes, dried and cracked like a desert floor.
I know Police don’t take care of people like us. We take care of us. Except when we don’t, and then you’re on your own.
I am on my own. Oh yeah, I know that, too.
My friend said she consulted a dermatologist who said she'd developed an allergy to commercial soap. I never used soap on my face again. Ever. That I remember and I know for sure.
Some things I don’t remember or know at all. My first kiss. My first date. I don’t remember a lot of my life. Not the way you remember yours.
I remember photographs of events, but not the actual event.
Sometimes I think that I made the whole thing up.
All of it.
Then, fiveten years later I run into someone who was there, in that snapshot moment and they say, Yes, that’s what happened. Yes, it was exactly like that. Or they don’t say anything because maybe they blinked too sometimes. Or they look at me like I’m crazy because they remember it a whole ‘nother way completely.
There are things I know, the way I know about Columbus or the Kennedy assassination, but I don’t technically remember, because, like I said, I wasn’t actually there.
That’s how my life has been. I blink and days will disappear. Even when I knew where I was, I wasn’t really there. I left my baggage in the lobby, but I was gone, baby, gone. Checked out. I know the stories, but they happened to that other Jessica while I watched from the back side of the looking glass. I shouldn’t be held responsible, because I wasn’t actually there.
I don’t remember not one single thing from my own eyes. I remember from the eyes of the other me, the one who stepped out, stood in the shadows, sat next to me in the clubs, lounged on the couch in the corner and watched with no reaction at all. To anything. No matter what was going down. From the safety of the shadows I watched my life just happen– the good, the bad and the ugly. Even in a room by myself, I stood in a corner, watching to see what I would do next.
Word is you remember the things that are important to you. I think I remember the things that changed me, even if they didn’t seem important at the time. I can't be sure. But either way... whether I know it or remember it, whether it's important or it's not, whether it's vodka-redbull induced or infinite shit-throwing monkey proclaimed, I've got to be sure... because I doubt brains will start coming equipped with "Ti-Vo" anytime soon.
I mean, after all, what's the point of doing anything if with a blink it dissapears? My life has been pretty fucking entertaining so far. I would like to reserve the right to watch the "Re-runs" anytime I want.
Thanks.
-Jess
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