Dear whatever the fuck your name is-
I truly feel your pain. Not only do you work part-time at one of the biggest retail franchises in the world still legally promoting "slave labor" and dependance on welfare; but on the day we had our "encounter", it also seems that earlier in the shift, you had shit your pants. I was sure that because of your nearly non-existant wages and embarrassingly small employee discount, you couldn't have afforded to buy a newly pressed and less shitty pair of khakis from the neighborhood flea market, let alone from the very establishment you work in.
So I forgave you temporarily for your disgusting display of excrement.
Although this day we met you clearly were having issues, I don't understand why my simple request for you to grab me a copy of the Underworld trilogy was so hard for you to complete. You ARE working in the movies and electronics section of walmart, in case you didnt know. I stayed up, eyes burning and all til 12 am wandering aimlessly through Walmart just to get it. I had cold, hard, CASH.. 60 dollars to be exact and I wanted to blow it all on the blue-ray edition of Underworld. I am almost positive that my mere purchase of this blue-ray disc set was going to go toward paying your entire years salary, but you being the worthless, un-grateful cunt you are had to go and cop an attitude.
After waiting in line for almost an hour, when it came to be my turn to come up to the register, I approached you slowly and made eye contact for less than a nanosecond, and then you squawked "GIVE ME A SECOND!!" and put your hand up in the air as if to say, "Oh no she didn't", without actually saying it.
I thought, What a bitch. But I continued to wait in silence for you to finish doing whatever it was that you were fucking doing. Finally, after about 15 minutes, you shrugged and rolled your eyes, then did one of those tilted head, chest out, on the defensive moves before frowning and scoffing, then finally shouting "TWAT can I help you with?" I noticed your 'not wanting to be at work' attitude right from the get-go. I brushed it off moments earlier trying to think about how I would feel about myself and my job if all I did was restock DVD's, and occasionally pull out a video game for a geeky teen. There must be a requirement at Walmart as far as being borderline retarded cause it seems like I'm always running into douche-bags there. It's like when you walk in for an interview they must have a robot asking a set of questions like, "Did you eat paint chips as a child?" Or, "Were you the product of incest?".. "If you answered yes to either of these questions, Congratulations! You're Hired!" I mean honestly, what kind of gargantuan life mistakes would have to have been made in ones life to end up passing out carts and checking bags on the graveyard shift thier local Walmart? I don't even want to know.
Finally, after being distracted by the last tooth hanging in your dragon mouth and thinking, "Wow, that really resembles a piece of corn" I explained I was there to pick up the new release of Underworld. You grimaced again like you were too much of a twit and much too monsterous to come out of your little box to look for it. Just then a kid in the back with bad dandruff shouted he wanted Underworld too. So I thought, 'YES, strength in numbers, this dumb shit mongrel is gonna HAVE to find my movie now.' Of course your bitch-ass scowled like a cat in heat before walking over to the new release rack, rummaging through May 12th Midnight releases quickly before deciding that was enough work for the day and that Walmart didn't have it. But not before bending over in my face and not ONLY displaying your colossally shit covered behind, but also bending far enough down to where I was staring directly at your stretch mark covered tit sacks. The get-up Walmart provided you with was clearly too stretched out to be considered appropriate, and thanks to your unwanted display, I now have an image burned into my retinas that will surely haunt my dreams for years to come.
You trashy CUNT. What happened to the happy go lucky Walmart employees that wander around knocking down smiling prices all day? What happened to them!?! What happened to a certain level of competence to handle remedial duties being required from employees at any job? What the FUCK happened to that? Had you been wearing a name-tag I would have screamed for a manager and hopefully got your bitch-ass fired, but since you had not I was left standing there, helpless, with 60 dollars in my pocket and nothing to spend it on. I am completely positive at one time you DID have a name-tag, but over time somehow it got sucked into one of your enormous rolls, or you used your last snaggle tooth to sharpen and fashion it into some sort of shank, so you could mangle boxes filled with new crap needing to be put on shelves. Either way that is fucking disgusting.
I just want you to know, I got my copy of Underworld. I waited till you walked away and I searched the rack myself. There, right on top, lay a perfectly crisp and seemingly 'just vaccuum sealed' copy of the trilogy. You tried to stop me from leaving your section without paying at your little box you ruthless bitch, but I ignored your barking and walked straight to the register upfront. You can thank your ridiculous attitude for the fact that the fat hoe on the cigarette lane is now going to get her bonus. My sixty dollars is all she needed to push her quarterly sales over the edge. Thank yourself you worthless harlot.
I hope your nights are filled with loose, watery shit for years to come. I hope your sphincter loses all elasticity and you end up a walking, talking hemorrhoidal/defecation-stain forever. I hope your last tooth rots out of your fucking skull and you have nothing left to sharpen your shanks with. I hope you get fired you toothless wonder. I really do.
Lastly, but not least, go FUCK yourself.
With absolutely no love-
Jess
2.8.10
Office Women. Hate 'Em.
To the women who work in my office… I hate you
Girl with the bright blonde weave who works in reception- I don’t know how you got your job, you are so uneducated it makes me sick. Did you graduate grammar school? I think I would respect you more if the answer to that is no. I want to throw a rock at your face every time I walk by when you are answering the phone and you say something like ‘who you callin’ for?’ or ‘he in a meetin’ right now’ or my personal favorite, ‘who this is?’ I bet the people on the other end of the phone want to throw a rock at your face too. I also can’t stand when I get message notes from you that are written like so: Mr. Smith called hes wanting to kno wen he shuld ecspect the letter of aprovle. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It amazes me that the only two things in your job description are answering phones and taking phone messages and you can’t do either of those things!
Tall girl in design with the short brown hair- You have horrendous body odor! I’m not talking a little stench here and there I am talking everyday when you walk into the building people drop dead. I don’t know how you don’t notice it. I’m going to buy you deodorant for Christmas.
Fat woman who works in suite 19- I don’t know exactly what you do for this company, but I know far too much about your personal life. When you talk to your boyfriend on company time, please refrain from telling him it felt so good when he slipped his hard dick into your fat ass! Yea I heard that, and so does everyone else that walks by your suite when you are on the phone. It’s disgusting, and we don’t want to hear about it, so keep your voice down.
Blonde woman who works for accounting- I know that you are 30, not 25 and I also know that at the Christmas party last year you had sex with the bosses son in the broom closet and that he got you pregnant. Please don’t insult me in front of our coworkers again or I will tell everyone.
Girl that works in sales- When you wear that brown skirt with the white flower on the bottom and you sit down, we can all see that you don’t wear panties.
Boss’ old receptionist- My name is not Rachel, Roberta, Carol, Kim or Kelli’ it’s Jessica.
Middle age woman who works in reception- Your job is not that hard. You answer phones, put people on hold, and take messages. I don’t care that you were up late cleaning the house or that you sat up all night waiting for you delinquent son to get home, that does not give you a reason to get rude with a customer or walk around bitching about how your job is so stressful. Half of us come in still drunk from the night before, but we never yell at clients, bitch about our family members or say our jobs are soooo hard.
Pregnant bitch- There is only one of you, so no need for further description but let it be known that you are not the first person to ever get knocked up! You are not the first person to get heart burn, you are not the first person to get morning sickness. You are not the first person to pee their pants because the baby put too much pressure on your bladder and you certainly are not the first person who has had strange cravings for cheese and anchovies. Stop complaining about it!
Little intern girl- You are so cute with your stringy brown hair, acne and braces but your coffee skills are lacking. All I ever want is a large black coffee but you seem to think that I would rather a low-fat Latte, or a Caramel Frappe, or even a Chai Tea. Nope I don’t want those, I just want a damn black coffee! Also, you obviously don’t know your alphabet because my filing cabinet is a mess. F does not come after R, sweetie. Do you want to flunk the class you are doing this internship for? No? You better shape your ass up and get me the right coffee then!
Pretty girl who is head of the writing department- You are the only girl who works in this office that I can stand. You greet me every morning with a bright smile and a cheery hello. And you are so damn smart. No wonder you are 22 and head of the department that could pretty much make or break our company. One time I asked you the Circumference of the earth and you knew it! Usually I would think that is weird and dorky but from you, I find it really nice. I also like that you are the only girl in the company that hasn’t slept with someone that works with us. But for the record, if you did, I wouldn’t respect you any less.
Hispanic girl who works in design- You wear way too much makeup, I hate that you draw your eyebrows on, and I’m pretty sure you have an adams apple and are a man.
35 year old secretary- You have a 20 year old son, and a 15 year old son… yet you dress like you are 16. I would be embarrassed to be your children. Oh and you look really stupid when you wear that plaid school-girl skirt with the white tights and hooker boots. This is an office… not a brothel.
Girl with the bright blonde weave who works in reception- I don’t know how you got your job, you are so uneducated it makes me sick. Did you graduate grammar school? I think I would respect you more if the answer to that is no. I want to throw a rock at your face every time I walk by when you are answering the phone and you say something like ‘who you callin’ for?’ or ‘he in a meetin’ right now’ or my personal favorite, ‘who this is?’ I bet the people on the other end of the phone want to throw a rock at your face too. I also can’t stand when I get message notes from you that are written like so: Mr. Smith called hes wanting to kno wen he shuld ecspect the letter of aprovle. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It amazes me that the only two things in your job description are answering phones and taking phone messages and you can’t do either of those things!
Tall girl in design with the short brown hair- You have horrendous body odor! I’m not talking a little stench here and there I am talking everyday when you walk into the building people drop dead. I don’t know how you don’t notice it. I’m going to buy you deodorant for Christmas.
Fat woman who works in suite 19- I don’t know exactly what you do for this company, but I know far too much about your personal life. When you talk to your boyfriend on company time, please refrain from telling him it felt so good when he slipped his hard dick into your fat ass! Yea I heard that, and so does everyone else that walks by your suite when you are on the phone. It’s disgusting, and we don’t want to hear about it, so keep your voice down.
Blonde woman who works for accounting- I know that you are 30, not 25 and I also know that at the Christmas party last year you had sex with the bosses son in the broom closet and that he got you pregnant. Please don’t insult me in front of our coworkers again or I will tell everyone.
Girl that works in sales- When you wear that brown skirt with the white flower on the bottom and you sit down, we can all see that you don’t wear panties.
Boss’ old receptionist- My name is not Rachel, Roberta, Carol, Kim or Kelli’ it’s Jessica.
Middle age woman who works in reception- Your job is not that hard. You answer phones, put people on hold, and take messages. I don’t care that you were up late cleaning the house or that you sat up all night waiting for you delinquent son to get home, that does not give you a reason to get rude with a customer or walk around bitching about how your job is so stressful. Half of us come in still drunk from the night before, but we never yell at clients, bitch about our family members or say our jobs are soooo hard.
Pregnant bitch- There is only one of you, so no need for further description but let it be known that you are not the first person to ever get knocked up! You are not the first person to get heart burn, you are not the first person to get morning sickness. You are not the first person to pee their pants because the baby put too much pressure on your bladder and you certainly are not the first person who has had strange cravings for cheese and anchovies. Stop complaining about it!
Little intern girl- You are so cute with your stringy brown hair, acne and braces but your coffee skills are lacking. All I ever want is a large black coffee but you seem to think that I would rather a low-fat Latte, or a Caramel Frappe, or even a Chai Tea. Nope I don’t want those, I just want a damn black coffee! Also, you obviously don’t know your alphabet because my filing cabinet is a mess. F does not come after R, sweetie. Do you want to flunk the class you are doing this internship for? No? You better shape your ass up and get me the right coffee then!
Pretty girl who is head of the writing department- You are the only girl who works in this office that I can stand. You greet me every morning with a bright smile and a cheery hello. And you are so damn smart. No wonder you are 22 and head of the department that could pretty much make or break our company. One time I asked you the Circumference of the earth and you knew it! Usually I would think that is weird and dorky but from you, I find it really nice. I also like that you are the only girl in the company that hasn’t slept with someone that works with us. But for the record, if you did, I wouldn’t respect you any less.
Hispanic girl who works in design- You wear way too much makeup, I hate that you draw your eyebrows on, and I’m pretty sure you have an adams apple and are a man.
35 year old secretary- You have a 20 year old son, and a 15 year old son… yet you dress like you are 16. I would be embarrassed to be your children. Oh and you look really stupid when you wear that plaid school-girl skirt with the white tights and hooker boots. This is an office… not a brothel.
9.7.10
Getting Lippy With The Teacher
Dear Mrs:
In just over a month, you will be my sons' Grade 4th teacher. He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage. Why, since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about. He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”
And I have to admit, I, too, was excited. I’m a school supplies geek from way back. And so, in early June, I set out to buy the items you’d listed.
It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.
You’re a crafty bitch, aren’t you?
This list was a thinly disguised test. Could I find the items, exactly as you’d prescribed? Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, Who Can’t Follow Directions.
For example, the glue sticks you requested. In the 40 gram size. Three of the little buggers. (What kind of massive, sticky project you’ve got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.) But the 40 gram size doesn’t come in a convenient 3-pack. The /30 /gram size does. But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate. So I got the individually priced 40’s, as per your instructions.
Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors). The 24 packs, with their 24 /different /colors, sat there, on sale. I could have purchased /three/ of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs. (Clearly, you’ll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.) Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma’am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons. But that’s what the list said. And I was committed to following the list.
But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn’t you? “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for. Simple enough. Except the standard size is /seven /millimeters. One. Millimeter. Difference. Do you realize, Mrs., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is? Pretty small, I assure you. The thickness of a fingernail, approximately. But that millimeter, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty June hours. And when I finally, FINALLY found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory. I merely shifted my focus. To you, Mrs.
You wanna dance, lady? Let’s dance.
Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games. And, in turn, come up with some of my own.
On show and tell day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth. It will be labelled, “Ben’s First Puppy.” Enjoy.
He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean. Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-sematic”, and “skank”. Good luck with those.
At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics. And I’m quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”. And he will.
Through interpretive dance.
Because that is who you’ve chosen to tangle with, toots. A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands. But is, most certainly, A Mother Who Can Follow Directions.
Sincerely,
J.
In just over a month, you will be my sons' Grade 4th teacher. He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage. Why, since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about. He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”
And I have to admit, I, too, was excited. I’m a school supplies geek from way back. And so, in early June, I set out to buy the items you’d listed.
It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.
You’re a crafty bitch, aren’t you?
This list was a thinly disguised test. Could I find the items, exactly as you’d prescribed? Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, Who Can’t Follow Directions.
For example, the glue sticks you requested. In the 40 gram size. Three of the little buggers. (What kind of massive, sticky project you’ve got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.) But the 40 gram size doesn’t come in a convenient 3-pack. The /30 /gram size does. But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate. So I got the individually priced 40’s, as per your instructions.
Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors). The 24 packs, with their 24 /different /colors, sat there, on sale. I could have purchased /three/ of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs. (Clearly, you’ll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.) Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma’am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons. But that’s what the list said. And I was committed to following the list.
But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn’t you? “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for. Simple enough. Except the standard size is /seven /millimeters. One. Millimeter. Difference. Do you realize, Mrs., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is? Pretty small, I assure you. The thickness of a fingernail, approximately. But that millimeter, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty June hours. And when I finally, FINALLY found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory. I merely shifted my focus. To you, Mrs.
You wanna dance, lady? Let’s dance.
Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games. And, in turn, come up with some of my own.
On show and tell day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth. It will be labelled, “Ben’s First Puppy.” Enjoy.
He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean. Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-sematic”, and “skank”. Good luck with those.
At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics. And I’m quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”. And he will.
Through interpretive dance.
Because that is who you’ve chosen to tangle with, toots. A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands. But is, most certainly, A Mother Who Can Follow Directions.
Sincerely,
J.
10.6.10
...Annnd then I forgot to Blog.
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.
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.
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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