I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to wrench.
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Dear Wrench,
I remembered this morning that I had left my resume in microwave to marinate in red wine and basil. For some reason, after 2 weeks, resume was completely soaked and couldn’t be saved! So, I decided that perhaps marinating resume was not the best course of treatment for unemployment, and hit the interwebs to hatch my next plan.
As you may know, my latest goal is to go abroad to Argenbabwebodialand or somewhere in Afrasia, and I stumbled on this little known institution called the “United Nations.” It seems as though two things are always needed in Argenbabwebodialand: security guards and people who know how to use water pumps. I could totally be a security guard! Unfortunately, I don’t have any outdated Men-in-Black style sunglasses, and I spent all but 45 cents of my money on ginger snaps, so that didn’t work. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to show up to my interview without my sunglasses!
Since my masters degree appears to be nothing more than a $65,000 piece of paper, I figured it was time to learn how to become a master…wait for it…plumber. Remember when my dad bought you from the hardware store and attempted to show me how to use you? He didn’t mean to throw you under the bed that day. It was my fault. Whenever he said the word “bolt,” I would take off running, so he got mad and gave up. But I found you, wrench, no need to worry no more. Wrench, together I figured we could master the art of water pumps in 15-20 minutes, so I took my 45 cents to buy two dozen donuts and a pair of jeans from K-Mart that sit below my butt crack.
Wrench, I am so impressed with you! On our first try to change a pipe, we only flooded three rooms! And when we tried to put the water heater on max, it only took us three attempts to figure out which way to turn the knob! Those things are confusing. Pretty soon wrench, we will rule the streets with our mad plumbing skillz. That’s another qualification to check off on my UN application, right along with “French” and “Doesn’t cry a lot!” Watch out Argenbabwebodialand! Wrench and I are coming!
Now wrench, supposing I get accepted for this job in Argenbabwebodialand, there is a chance I will not be able to take you along. It appears airport security has new regulations that classify you as a weapon of mass destruction. If perchance you could crawl into a bottle that holds three ounces or less, you stand a much better chance. If not, I completely understand, and have even secured you a job if I leave!
It appears this “United Nations” joins many other organizations in establishing a new branch of human resources titled “The Department of Wrenching Hearts Out.” They have arbitrarily rejected SO many qualified people, that they need a separate office just properly wrench and dispose of these people’s hopes, dreams, and desires! I spoke to the office in mid-town, and they said you are more than welcome to join anytime! So you see wrench, even if I go to Argenbabwebodialand, you will be well taken care of.
With bolts,
Mala
12.13.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Tin Can
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Tin Can.
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Dear Tin Can,
Around 3 AM a few nights ago, it struck me that I hadn’t eaten anything in 28 hours, so I stumbled my way to the kitchen. I would have turned on the light, but that seemed like so much effort. I made it four steps, when I tripped on something. Naturally, I thought it was a hippo, but it turned out to be you, tin can. I saw on the discovery channel that one can calculate a tree’s age by counting the rings in the center. Sadly, you do not have rings, tin can, but judging from the abundance of plaid, leg warmers, and skinny jeans the people painted on you are wearing, you are either 26 or a hipster infant. Or Canadian.
Tin can, you have already proven yourself quite useful. After the painful process of crawling out of bed, I made it to the store. Only having $20.83 to my name, I decided to use my money pragmatically and buy 500 ginger snaps. Like some bizarre, incredibly boring fate, they all fit in you! This is really not that exciting, but these exclamation marks are not going to use themselves!!!!! Anyway, I decided to start a new game. The only time I eat a ginger snap is when I meet an incompetent worker or hear a tale of some idiot one of my three employed friends works with. That way, I remind myself that THEY have a job, and I am still heavily infected with unemployment. Yesterday, I ate 319 ginger snaps. Now why do I do this, you ask, tin can? Well first, it’s kind of weird that my tin can doubles as my psychiatrist. But if you must know, it’s out of the purest form of emotion: self-loathing.
You might have noticed, tin can, that the weather is getting colder. As such, I have invested three dollars into buying appropriate winter clothes. Actually, since I ate all my ginger snaps, I bought duct tape to turn you into a hat. I will be sooo cool with my hipster tin can hat! Sure, it won’t serve any function, and sure, it won’t be appropriate in any setting. BUT! According to all the expensive shit I see through the windows of the stores the people in SOHO don’t let me enter, these two things are what make great fashion! Tin can (hat), imagine all of the publicity I will garner when I break into fashion week with you! If we get lucky, I will get two feet taller, halve my weight, and be able to support five pounds of makeup. Then, I walk you down the catwalk! Down the catwalk, baby, yeaah! In your face, Tyra and Tim Gunn! I don’t need your whiny little shows to become successful! I invented theinternet tin can hat!
With irony, suffering, and other misused hipster words,
Mala
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Dear Tin Can,
Around 3 AM a few nights ago, it struck me that I hadn’t eaten anything in 28 hours, so I stumbled my way to the kitchen. I would have turned on the light, but that seemed like so much effort. I made it four steps, when I tripped on something. Naturally, I thought it was a hippo, but it turned out to be you, tin can. I saw on the discovery channel that one can calculate a tree’s age by counting the rings in the center. Sadly, you do not have rings, tin can, but judging from the abundance of plaid, leg warmers, and skinny jeans the people painted on you are wearing, you are either 26 or a hipster infant. Or Canadian.
Tin can, you have already proven yourself quite useful. After the painful process of crawling out of bed, I made it to the store. Only having $20.83 to my name, I decided to use my money pragmatically and buy 500 ginger snaps. Like some bizarre, incredibly boring fate, they all fit in you! This is really not that exciting, but these exclamation marks are not going to use themselves!!!!! Anyway, I decided to start a new game. The only time I eat a ginger snap is when I meet an incompetent worker or hear a tale of some idiot one of my three employed friends works with. That way, I remind myself that THEY have a job, and I am still heavily infected with unemployment. Yesterday, I ate 319 ginger snaps. Now why do I do this, you ask, tin can? Well first, it’s kind of weird that my tin can doubles as my psychiatrist. But if you must know, it’s out of the purest form of emotion: self-loathing.
You might have noticed, tin can, that the weather is getting colder. As such, I have invested three dollars into buying appropriate winter clothes. Actually, since I ate all my ginger snaps, I bought duct tape to turn you into a hat. I will be sooo cool with my hipster tin can hat! Sure, it won’t serve any function, and sure, it won’t be appropriate in any setting. BUT! According to all the expensive shit I see through the windows of the stores the people in SOHO don’t let me enter, these two things are what make great fashion! Tin can (hat), imagine all of the publicity I will garner when I break into fashion week with you! If we get lucky, I will get two feet taller, halve my weight, and be able to support five pounds of makeup. Then, I walk you down the catwalk! Down the catwalk, baby, yeaah! In your face, Tyra and Tim Gunn! I don’t need your whiny little shows to become successful! I invented the
With irony, suffering, and other misused hipster words,
Mala
12.10.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to World Map
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to World Map.
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Dear World Map,
After once again meeting this strange box called “television” for a third time this month, I made the pleasant discovery that BBC News has beamed itself down and delivers actual world events on a DAILY basis! Naturally, I have no attention span since this chronic case of unemployment has effectively shut down my brain, but I did catch the words “asylum” and “Sweden” before I fell asleep. World Map, no one has heard anything about Sweden…well, ever, so after I woke up three hours later, I went straight to you to find this tall white and occasionally brown people oasis. There it was, sitting on top of everything else in a beautiful shade of purple. Imagine what it must be like to live in a purple country!
Apparently, the Swedish are known for more than just making reasonably priced modern furniture. They are also known for being perfect at everything ever! So I decided to apply to Sweden as an asylum seeker! After eating a candy cane for brain food (the “Candy Cane Equality” movement died – corrupt leadership), I carefully thought out my asylum reason. Thinking is hard! After 30 seconds, I settled on this: Possession of a brain and persecution due to unemployment status.
It’s perfect, World Map! They can’t possibly deny me! I mean, every time I try to tell people in the south that health care and education are good things, they throw paper balls at me and shout about gay people marrying sheep and painting their guns pink! And then when I go to the north and try to sign a lease on an apartment, they tell me I need a job, but the job people tell me I need to live in the city before I can be hired! I took a human rights class, World Map, and this is against my right to leuqwojdlasd. It’s never-ending, World Map, and Sweden must do something! Yeah, justice!
I submitted my asylum application three days ago. But since it’s a common online application, it only took 15 minutes to apply to five countries! Since I had 23.75 hours of free time, I decided to throw my dad a surprise party for his birthday. I sat down at computer and starting searching on the interwebs. Five minutes later, I was watching “Glee.” Netflix tells me this is because I have a strong affinity for shows in which in real life, the kids are 25 years old, and the adults are 35 years old. “Glee” is also important for other reasons. Actually, it is just one reason: Vitamin D! World Map, I know you really liked that episode where the 25-year-old kids got hopped up on Vitamin D to make it through a particularly hard day, right? So I decided to take Vitamin D pills too!
Within minutes, I was saying ridiculous things like, “I think I will go outside today.” And, “My socks match!” Or, “Unemployment has made me a better person.” Then I hit my head and passed out. When I came to, there you were, standing over me with that look of concern. I think I even saw a tear or two in Spain and Turkey’s eyes. World Map, I hit rock bottom in those two hours, and I am so thankful you were there to remind me of what is most important: cake. I didn’t order a damn cake for the party. Thanks for the reminder, that would have been embarrassing!
See you in Sweden,
Mala
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Dear World Map,
After once again meeting this strange box called “television” for a third time this month, I made the pleasant discovery that BBC News has beamed itself down and delivers actual world events on a DAILY basis! Naturally, I have no attention span since this chronic case of unemployment has effectively shut down my brain, but I did catch the words “asylum” and “Sweden” before I fell asleep. World Map, no one has heard anything about Sweden…well, ever, so after I woke up three hours later, I went straight to you to find this tall white and occasionally brown people oasis. There it was, sitting on top of everything else in a beautiful shade of purple. Imagine what it must be like to live in a purple country!
Apparently, the Swedish are known for more than just making reasonably priced modern furniture. They are also known for being perfect at everything ever! So I decided to apply to Sweden as an asylum seeker! After eating a candy cane for brain food (the “Candy Cane Equality” movement died – corrupt leadership), I carefully thought out my asylum reason. Thinking is hard! After 30 seconds, I settled on this: Possession of a brain and persecution due to unemployment status.
It’s perfect, World Map! They can’t possibly deny me! I mean, every time I try to tell people in the south that health care and education are good things, they throw paper balls at me and shout about gay people marrying sheep and painting their guns pink! And then when I go to the north and try to sign a lease on an apartment, they tell me I need a job, but the job people tell me I need to live in the city before I can be hired! I took a human rights class, World Map, and this is against my right to leuqwojdlasd. It’s never-ending, World Map, and Sweden must do something! Yeah, justice!
I submitted my asylum application three days ago. But since it’s a common online application, it only took 15 minutes to apply to five countries! Since I had 23.75 hours of free time, I decided to throw my dad a surprise party for his birthday. I sat down at computer and starting searching on the interwebs. Five minutes later, I was watching “Glee.” Netflix tells me this is because I have a strong affinity for shows in which in real life, the kids are 25 years old, and the adults are 35 years old. “Glee” is also important for other reasons. Actually, it is just one reason: Vitamin D! World Map, I know you really liked that episode where the 25-year-old kids got hopped up on Vitamin D to make it through a particularly hard day, right? So I decided to take Vitamin D pills too!
Within minutes, I was saying ridiculous things like, “I think I will go outside today.” And, “My socks match!” Or, “Unemployment has made me a better person.” Then I hit my head and passed out. When I came to, there you were, standing over me with that look of concern. I think I even saw a tear or two in Spain and Turkey’s eyes. World Map, I hit rock bottom in those two hours, and I am so thankful you were there to remind me of what is most important: cake. I didn’t order a damn cake for the party. Thanks for the reminder, that would have been embarrassing!
See you in Sweden,
Mala
12.07.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Pad of Paper
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Pad of Paper.
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Dear Pad of Paper,
We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we? Before yesterday, the last time I had seen one of you was in 1998, before I got my first laptop. You are deceptively simple, Pad of Paper. I spent 14 minutes yesterday just trying to figure out where you keep all of your information. Then I realized you don’t have any! It’s me who needs to fill that in! I suppose that’s what got me hooked initially. Computer has created so much data about me that if it ever went rogue, I’m pretty sure it could it could predict my movements before I do! It has gotten a bit overwhelming, Pad of Paper. I knew it was time to take a break when I used the interwebs to sign into my Netflix account a few days ago, and it told me I really enjoying watching movies from the “Mind-Bending Foreign Pantomime with a Strong Leading Dog” category. How did it know!? So I decided to pull you out the next morning and start with an object that has less knowledge inside than I do. That was hard to find!
Pad of Paper, you are so non-judgmental! You don’t highlight things I misspell, like bussines, with a harsh red line. You don’t care if I use the passive voice to say things like “The cake was eaten by me. It’s none of your bussines.” You don’t care, and it’s brill-yant! My unemployment has now seeped into my bloodstream. In these critical stages, Pad of Paper, I need to complain uninterrupted. I need to let my genius flow out so that some day, I can take all the brill-yant things I wrote down on you, and shake them violently in front of my HR rep’s face! You go “crinkle crinkle,” Pad of Paper. When I shake computer, it doesn’t go “crinkle crinkle!” And without that “crinkle crinkle,” how will the HR department know how bad of a mistake they made letting me go wasted all of those months? A bad mistake, Pad of Paper, a bad mistake made by HR rep.
Pad of Paper, the great thing about you is that you have so many other uses besides storing information. I am not sure if anyone has ever thought of this, but when I take one of your sheets and crumple it up, I can make a ball! Then, I can take those balls and throw them at people! I heard on Fox News that President Obama is the devil. Then I heard on MSNBC that President Obama is Buddha. That has no relevance, just thought I’d share.
Anyway Pad of Paper, this Friday, I propose a little field trip to Wall Street. Apparently those assholes who ruined the economy wrote down on other Pads of Paper how to keep destroying the economy before those three guys were carted off to a really nice prison that sort of resembles a five-star hotel. We have to take action, Pad of Paper. First, with the use of at least 10 or 12 paper balls, we will ambush security and gain access to the buildings. Then, with another 15 or 20 paper balls, we will systematically and brill-yantly steal all those secrets from those assholes! Then WE can destroy the economy! We’re going to be so rich, Pad of Paper, that I won’t be able to write my salary down on you! Together, we can make sure those Wall Street assholes are punished, even taxed! They will regret what they did. All the bad bad mistakes made by them!
With papercuts,
Mala
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Dear Pad of Paper,
We have a lot of catching up to do, don’t we? Before yesterday, the last time I had seen one of you was in 1998, before I got my first laptop. You are deceptively simple, Pad of Paper. I spent 14 minutes yesterday just trying to figure out where you keep all of your information. Then I realized you don’t have any! It’s me who needs to fill that in! I suppose that’s what got me hooked initially. Computer has created so much data about me that if it ever went rogue, I’m pretty sure it could it could predict my movements before I do! It has gotten a bit overwhelming, Pad of Paper. I knew it was time to take a break when I used the interwebs to sign into my Netflix account a few days ago, and it told me I really enjoying watching movies from the “Mind-Bending Foreign Pantomime with a Strong Leading Dog” category. How did it know!? So I decided to pull you out the next morning and start with an object that has less knowledge inside than I do. That was hard to find!
Pad of Paper, you are so non-judgmental! You don’t highlight things I misspell, like bussines, with a harsh red line. You don’t care if I use the passive voice to say things like “The cake was eaten by me. It’s none of your bussines.” You don’t care, and it’s brill-yant! My unemployment has now seeped into my bloodstream. In these critical stages, Pad of Paper, I need to complain uninterrupted. I need to let my genius flow out so that some day, I can take all the brill-yant things I wrote down on you, and shake them violently in front of my HR rep’s face! You go “crinkle crinkle,” Pad of Paper. When I shake computer, it doesn’t go “crinkle crinkle!” And without that “crinkle crinkle,” how will the HR department know how bad of a mistake they made letting me go wasted all of those months? A bad mistake, Pad of Paper, a bad mistake made by HR rep.
Pad of Paper, the great thing about you is that you have so many other uses besides storing information. I am not sure if anyone has ever thought of this, but when I take one of your sheets and crumple it up, I can make a ball! Then, I can take those balls and throw them at people! I heard on Fox News that President Obama is the devil. Then I heard on MSNBC that President Obama is Buddha. That has no relevance, just thought I’d share.
Anyway Pad of Paper, this Friday, I propose a little field trip to Wall Street. Apparently those assholes who ruined the economy wrote down on other Pads of Paper how to keep destroying the economy before those three guys were carted off to a really nice prison that sort of resembles a five-star hotel. We have to take action, Pad of Paper. First, with the use of at least 10 or 12 paper balls, we will ambush security and gain access to the buildings. Then, with another 15 or 20 paper balls, we will systematically and brill-yantly steal all those secrets from those assholes! Then WE can destroy the economy! We’re going to be so rich, Pad of Paper, that I won’t be able to write my salary down on you! Together, we can make sure those Wall Street assholes are punished, even taxed! They will regret what they did. All the bad bad mistakes made by them!
With papercuts,
Mala
12.05.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Microwave
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Microwave.
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Dear Microwave,
Hello, how are you? I’m not sure if you speak English since you were manufactured in China, but if you don’t, I apologize in advance for this blabbering. I was an idiot in school and took French. And now I’m unemployed. How do you say “merde” in Mandarin?
You’ve been doing an excessive amount of incoherent muttering these past few weeks. Initially, I decided to just let you be. I mean, who the hell writes letters to objects? So stupid! Actually, the real reason I decided to let you whine is because a friend of mine is so busy, she can barely breathe and asked me to help with her schoolwork. But then she found out I are writes bad, so she stopped asking. Now I have time, are you happy Microwave!?
Anyway, I first want to apologize for that little incident. As I have contracted this horrible condition known as unemployment, my ability to do things has waned, including my ability to buy food. That late October evening when I stumbled into the kitchen because I couldn’t remember how to get to my room is thus easily explained. You see, Microwave, I was starving, so I figured if I put that box of crayons in your mouth long enough, they would eventually get so soft that the crayons would become edible. Sure, this caused an explosion and we were both in the hospital for two days, but thanks for trying, Microwave! E for effort! And for explosion!
I’m so sorry that the months since then have gotten worse for you. We were all really devastated when we lost toaster to that piece of sourdough bread. I know how close you two were. In an ideal world, you would have time to grieve on your own, but as I leave the building less than 5 times a month, I couldn’t help but notice your long, anguished rotating plate spins. It’s always hard, Microwave, but I am here for you as you have been there for me.
Microwave, I know our relationship has been a bit rocky these past few months, but if you don’t mind, I have a favor to ask of you. Last week, I got an email from the prince of Nigeria, and he told me to click on a link at the bottom. Naturally I did, and was redirected to a porn site. Didn’t see that coming! But then I decided to get back to work, and submitted my resume to one of those companies that hire imbeciles to tell you what jobs you qualify for. Then it happened! One of the resume readers told me to let my experiences “marinate” while writing my cover letter. That’s it, Microwave! I need to let things marinate! So I finally bought some food! All I have to do to get a job is let my resume marinate in red wine, lemon, basil and garlic! The resume person said so! I assume this needs to be heated, so microwave, if you would be so kind, sometime next week I need to put my marinated resume inside to cook. I think 5 minutes on high should be enough. Then: presto! I will have a job! It’s coming, Microwave, my job is almost ready!
Yours truly,
Mala
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Dear Microwave,
Hello, how are you? I’m not sure if you speak English since you were manufactured in China, but if you don’t, I apologize in advance for this blabbering. I was an idiot in school and took French. And now I’m unemployed. How do you say “merde” in Mandarin?
You’ve been doing an excessive amount of incoherent muttering these past few weeks. Initially, I decided to just let you be. I mean, who the hell writes letters to objects? So stupid! Actually, the real reason I decided to let you whine is because a friend of mine is so busy, she can barely breathe and asked me to help with her schoolwork. But then she found out I are writes bad, so she stopped asking. Now I have time, are you happy Microwave!?
Anyway, I first want to apologize for that little incident. As I have contracted this horrible condition known as unemployment, my ability to do things has waned, including my ability to buy food. That late October evening when I stumbled into the kitchen because I couldn’t remember how to get to my room is thus easily explained. You see, Microwave, I was starving, so I figured if I put that box of crayons in your mouth long enough, they would eventually get so soft that the crayons would become edible. Sure, this caused an explosion and we were both in the hospital for two days, but thanks for trying, Microwave! E for effort! And for explosion!
I’m so sorry that the months since then have gotten worse for you. We were all really devastated when we lost toaster to that piece of sourdough bread. I know how close you two were. In an ideal world, you would have time to grieve on your own, but as I leave the building less than 5 times a month, I couldn’t help but notice your long, anguished rotating plate spins. It’s always hard, Microwave, but I am here for you as you have been there for me.
Microwave, I know our relationship has been a bit rocky these past few months, but if you don’t mind, I have a favor to ask of you. Last week, I got an email from the prince of Nigeria, and he told me to click on a link at the bottom. Naturally I did, and was redirected to a porn site. Didn’t see that coming! But then I decided to get back to work, and submitted my resume to one of those companies that hire imbeciles to tell you what jobs you qualify for. Then it happened! One of the resume readers told me to let my experiences “marinate” while writing my cover letter. That’s it, Microwave! I need to let things marinate! So I finally bought some food! All I have to do to get a job is let my resume marinate in red wine, lemon, basil and garlic! The resume person said so! I assume this needs to be heated, so microwave, if you would be so kind, sometime next week I need to put my marinated resume inside to cook. I think 5 minutes on high should be enough. Then: presto! I will have a job! It’s coming, Microwave, my job is almost ready!
Yours truly,
Mala
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Candy Cane
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to candy cane.
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Dear Candy Cane,
I stumbled upon a mint chocolate flavored one of you last week. Mostly because I am lazy and don’t want to search for jobs, but also because of this new “Candy Cane Equality” movement I just made up, I decided to dedicate no less than 72 hours to discovering exactly how you are made. Boy candy cane, I had no idea how brutal the process is! You poor poor piece of candy! You are slapped, stretched, twisted, softened, hardened, pulled and packaged! I must admit that watching this “How Candy is Made” special hosted by Mark Summers was…confusing. I totally thought he died like 15 years ago. Apparently it was just his career. But no matter candy cane – you are being treated inhumanely, and I am going to do something to help you! I am going to get “Candy Cane Equality” t-shirts made! Right after this commercial break.
Candy Cane, at first I thought you were brought to me to fill a hole in my heart (teeth?) after my favorite mojito place in the East Village banned me for life for stealing all of their sugar cane and blaming the owner’s 18-month-old son. Now I realize, Candy Cane, that our purpose in life is something much bigger. With our t-shirts, we will hit the streets, canvas schools, and blackmail B-list celebrities to start an international movement about the cruelties of candy cane abuse! We will be invited to speak at commencement ceremonies of hippie no-name universities, create TV ads that feature 5 white people and one Asian guy in black shirts, and say things like “ironic,” “Twitter,” “tragic,” and “Africa.” We can pose nonsense rhetorical questions like, “Did you know that every year, more than 1 billion candy canes suffer from violence, neglect, poverty, and badly decorated holiday boxes?” Most importantly candy cane, we will never, EVER find a real job.
I hear your concern, Candy Cane. This is a lot of pressure to take on, especially when there are so many other causes, like curing three-footed babies. But just remember why we dedicated ourselves to this cause nearly 13 hours ago – we have nothing better to do. So forget all of those pompous NGOs and foundations that feed people, provide medicine, build schools, and help little Johnny make another fucking documentary about the food industry! We are dedicated to Candy Cane Equality, and we will host our first mixer next week! Mojitos on the house!
I’ll bring the t-shirts,
Mala
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Dear Candy Cane,
I stumbled upon a mint chocolate flavored one of you last week. Mostly because I am lazy and don’t want to search for jobs, but also because of this new “Candy Cane Equality” movement I just made up, I decided to dedicate no less than 72 hours to discovering exactly how you are made. Boy candy cane, I had no idea how brutal the process is! You poor poor piece of candy! You are slapped, stretched, twisted, softened, hardened, pulled and packaged! I must admit that watching this “How Candy is Made” special hosted by Mark Summers was…confusing. I totally thought he died like 15 years ago. Apparently it was just his career. But no matter candy cane – you are being treated inhumanely, and I am going to do something to help you! I am going to get “Candy Cane Equality” t-shirts made! Right after this commercial break.
Candy Cane, at first I thought you were brought to me to fill a hole in my heart (teeth?) after my favorite mojito place in the East Village banned me for life for stealing all of their sugar cane and blaming the owner’s 18-month-old son. Now I realize, Candy Cane, that our purpose in life is something much bigger. With our t-shirts, we will hit the streets, canvas schools, and blackmail B-list celebrities to start an international movement about the cruelties of candy cane abuse! We will be invited to speak at commencement ceremonies of hippie no-name universities, create TV ads that feature 5 white people and one Asian guy in black shirts, and say things like “ironic,” “Twitter,” “tragic,” and “Africa.” We can pose nonsense rhetorical questions like, “Did you know that every year, more than 1 billion candy canes suffer from violence, neglect, poverty, and badly decorated holiday boxes?” Most importantly candy cane, we will never, EVER find a real job.
I hear your concern, Candy Cane. This is a lot of pressure to take on, especially when there are so many other causes, like curing three-footed babies. But just remember why we dedicated ourselves to this cause nearly 13 hours ago – we have nothing better to do. So forget all of those pompous NGOs and foundations that feed people, provide medicine, build schools, and help little Johnny make another fucking documentary about the food industry! We are dedicated to Candy Cane Equality, and we will host our first mixer next week! Mojitos on the house!
I’ll bring the t-shirts,
Mala
12.01.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Contact Case
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to contact case.
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Dear Contact Case,
How are you? Sorry I missed you today…I neglected to wander more than 20 feet away from my bed, so I didn’t feel the need to put you in my eyes this morning. I believe this was a wise decision, given the fact that my contacts are so worn down, I need to push them back up to the center of my eyes every 20-30 seconds. Nevertheless, you and contacts are doing a fantastic job of keeping me from running into walls, knowing the difference between a dead rat and a purse, and staring blindly at wallet hoping some money magically appears.
You even help with my latest endeavor – proving to myself that other degrees are a bigger waste of money than my Masters. For instance, with the service you provide, last night I conned scissors into helping me give myself a haircut. Beauty school? Rip off! I admit my attempts to prove that lumberjack school, firefighting school, and medical school are wastes of money were met with limited success, but at least we showed that bus driver school is a superfluous certification!
Contact case, I won’t lie to you. These past few months have been rough. Last week, Facebook told me that guy in my undergrad Econ 101 class who thought the term “Demand Curve” is slang for “buttocks” just landed my dream job. How this keeps happening, I don’t know. But in these situations, my first instinct is to dramatically run out the door, get into a car, and drive. Until I get hungry. After eating, my instinct is to keep driving until I get hungry again. At then after eating again, my instinct is to keep driving until I get hungry again again. And then after eating again again, my instinct…well, you get the point. So why don’t I do this, contact case? To be frank, the reason is you. Despite the fact that thousands of you are manufactured every year, you, contact case, are the one damn thing no one EVER has when I spend the night. I read one time in a magazine that may or may not have academic merit that contacts meld to eyeballs after 38 hours. That would suck. So I stay, for you.
In essence, contact case, you are the reason I do not spend copious amounts of money on gas trying to prove a point to people who probably wouldn’t notice I am gone. In essence, contact case, this is not that big of a point. Damnit. But I do appreciate the work you put in. Without you, I would still wear glasses. And man, do I look ugly in glasses!
I’m hungry,
Mala
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Dear Contact Case,
How are you? Sorry I missed you today…I neglected to wander more than 20 feet away from my bed, so I didn’t feel the need to put you in my eyes this morning. I believe this was a wise decision, given the fact that my contacts are so worn down, I need to push them back up to the center of my eyes every 20-30 seconds. Nevertheless, you and contacts are doing a fantastic job of keeping me from running into walls, knowing the difference between a dead rat and a purse, and staring blindly at wallet hoping some money magically appears.
You even help with my latest endeavor – proving to myself that other degrees are a bigger waste of money than my Masters. For instance, with the service you provide, last night I conned scissors into helping me give myself a haircut. Beauty school? Rip off! I admit my attempts to prove that lumberjack school, firefighting school, and medical school are wastes of money were met with limited success, but at least we showed that bus driver school is a superfluous certification!
Contact case, I won’t lie to you. These past few months have been rough. Last week, Facebook told me that guy in my undergrad Econ 101 class who thought the term “Demand Curve” is slang for “buttocks” just landed my dream job. How this keeps happening, I don’t know. But in these situations, my first instinct is to dramatically run out the door, get into a car, and drive. Until I get hungry. After eating, my instinct is to keep driving until I get hungry again. At then after eating again, my instinct is to keep driving until I get hungry again again. And then after eating again again, my instinct…well, you get the point. So why don’t I do this, contact case? To be frank, the reason is you. Despite the fact that thousands of you are manufactured every year, you, contact case, are the one damn thing no one EVER has when I spend the night. I read one time in a magazine that may or may not have academic merit that contacts meld to eyeballs after 38 hours. That would suck. So I stay, for you.
In essence, contact case, you are the reason I do not spend copious amounts of money on gas trying to prove a point to people who probably wouldn’t notice I am gone. In essence, contact case, this is not that big of a point. Damnit. But I do appreciate the work you put in. Without you, I would still wear glasses. And man, do I look ugly in glasses!
I’m hungry,
Mala
11.29.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Gavel
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to gavel.
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Dear Gavel,
After the interwebs decided to stop working last night, I finally figured out what function that strange box labeled “television” plays. 14 hours into the Law and Order: SVU marathon, I became inspired! To go to Law School? Hell no. To become an NYPD officer? Heller no. To go into business with you, gavel? Why yes!
Gavel, if I have learned anything from that Law and Order: SVU marathon, it’s that the bad guys of New York City are always rich white people with mommy issues. I have also learned that people with black robes who bang gavels on wooden desks command respect. I have thus hatched a new plan to get me back on track to employment!
Now gavel, sometime between now and January, I plan on finding my right shoe. And when that happens, I will dress myself up in my nicest hoodie, and put on my black robe from graduation. One time use, my ass. Together, gavel, we will travel to midtown, and storm the UN offices, demanding to be seen for an interview. The security guard who usually kicks me out will have no choice but to let us in, because he’ll think we’re some important judge! Once we get into the room for our interview, this is when you take the stage. I will say things such as. “Yes, I have 20 years of experience.” And, “No, I was not arrested for a felony last year.” After each sentence, I will bang you on the desk, gavel. This will show that pompous HR rep that I mean business! Finally, when the HR rep asks why I think I am the best candidate, I will start banging you on the desk to the beat of “Footloose” until the HR rep caves in or dies. Together, gavel, we shall prevail!
While I see absolutely no flaws in this plan, gavel, there is a minor possibility that it will not work. Should this happen, we will order a pizza. We might as well get fat, who the hell cares? Anyway, after pizza, we can hit the town! You are so versatile, gavel! We could be a pretend judge on Law and Order, pretend to be a judge in City Hall, invent a new kind of gavel banging massage in Chinatown, even be a construction worker! Screw those stupid hammers, you are so much prettier! Jobs abound for us, gavel. Your banging abilities will surely mean that the doors will open for us. And if they don’t, you can break them down, one Footloose song at a time.
With respect,
Mala
11.26.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Hoodie
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to hoodie.
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Dear Hoodie,
I’m not sure if that’s how I should spell you since Word, Blogger, and my dictionary say you don’t exist, and I can barely spell my own name. But hopefully this will do. Anyway, my brother suggested I write to you since you have been sitting on my torso for three days straight, minus the two hours extended family came over yesterday to moan about life under the guise of “Thanksgiving.” I wanted you to join in the festivities of family complaining, but my mother looked a bit upset that my entire Thanksgiving outfit was composed of grey cotton, so I changed - into green and black cotton. Thanks for being so understanding.
Now, I should probably apologize for having bought you in the first place. You see you came from a far-away land called “Spain.” And in “Spain,” things are often written in a strange, rarely used language called “Spanish.” In “Spanish,” I know two words: my name, which means “bad” – (thank you mom and dad) – and “grazie.” Actually, “grazie” is Italian. So in conclusion, I know one word in Spanish. This is my justification of buying you – I had no idea you came from the men’s department, as I do not know the words for “men” nor “women” in Spanish. Sorry.
To be fair, you were also one of those hoodies whose designers donate two percent of their profits to a foundation that supports curing babies with three feet or whatever the fuck the cause is. Being the humanitarian I am, I decided to buy you to help those poor three-footed babies, instead of donating directly to a transparent organization that clearly defines their methodology in how to cure three-footed babies. You should be grateful.
Hoodie, I’m sure it’s clear by the waking hours I keep that I am indeed, unemployed. Since this disease attacked me six months ago, I have considered switching professions more than a few times. You have helped so much in this exploration, especially with my newest career choice: French rapper. Remember how I downloaded that song by Diams a few months ago? Well, Diams and I are like the same person: she’s a Muslim convert who grew up near Paris, and I am a lazy Hindu who grew up in Virginia. Okay, so we have nothing in common, BUT, in her latest video, she wears a hoodie! So do I! It’s you! We’re trop badass together, hoodie! You and me, sitting in front of the mirror, mouthing words about French racism, ouais c’est ça! I might even write my own French rap song one of these days. When the time comes to make a crappy video to go with the song, my first choice is to cast you, ma chère hoodie!
Look hoodie, I heard you whispering last night to left sock. There might come the day when I actually find employment, and all of those pretentious wool and silk dress clothes will once again reign free. However, I just want you to know that you are WAY more appealing than those bastards, which is why I plan on petitioning to my future place of employment to instate hoodie-only suits. Yes, I realize these do not exist, and yes I realize I do not possess the skill to whip these into creation. But just remember one thing hoodie: I ALWAYS choose comfort. So until our French rap song goes platinum, I will not rest until I have the right to wear you in the office!
With conviction (unless it’s hard),
Mala
11.24.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Susy's Mascara
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to my friend Susy’s mascara.
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Dear Susy’s Mascara,
Hi, how are you? You may not remember me, but we’ve met a few times. I’m that odd-looking Indian girl who usually has some kind of processed sugar stuffed in her mouth. Well, Susy asked I write you, as you might have been feeling neglected these past few months. She would have written you herself, but since she moved back to Brussels and speaks to her family in Italian, she just couldn’t find the words in English. We know how uncomfortable things get for you when she speaks another language, being that you are a native New Yorker with no foreign language education and all…
Remember that one time we all went to that club in Hell’s Kitchen and everyone there was at least two out of the three following adjectives: awkward, Jewish, ugly? I vaguely remember – it appears those three shots of vodka and two shots of espresso threw me into a near diabetic coma. But no matter, unless my mind is making up shit again, I remember you being a star! You scored us no cover and like three free drinks a person! Ah, the glory daze. You rocked the house that night, and unless none of that never actually happened, I have not forgotten how capable you are, Susy’s mascara.
Anyway Susy’s mascara, times have been tough for her lately. As you may know, she too has been afflicted with this horrible ailment known as “unemployment.” It seems there are millions of cases reported around the globe. Now I realize you are water-resistant for emergencies involving rainstorms, tears, and Diet Coke explosions, but please understand that even so, you draw attention to Susy’s eyes.
Interviewers often ask questions such as:
- Why aren't you fluent in Creole, Swahili, Latin and this language we just made up?
- Why aren’t you 30?
- Why won’t you work for free?
- Why don’t you know how to polka dance?
And when this happens, Susy tends to make weird facial expressions trying to articulate sentiments such as:
- I hate you.
- You suck.
- What?
- I wonder if I brought my brass knuckles?
So you see, Susy’s mascara, any extra attention brought to Susy’s face tends to be bad in these situations. If you could, say morph into a cute pair of shoes, this would enhance your chances of being used.
Susy’s mascara, you should know that Susy is looking to take a job in Africa. Don’t tell her I told you, but there is a slight possibility she will bring you along. Of course, according to National Geographic, there is a sad lack of Jewish nightclubs in Africa, so your skills may be used in another capacity. And by that, I mean you will either be given as a gift to a village woman, or you will be used as body paint should Susy randomly get lost in one of those tribes that Keira Knightly uses for Vogue photo shoots.
So, as you see, Susy’s mascara, your time with her might be limited in coming years. My suggestion would be to scour the interwebs for job listings in Rome, Paris, or some other city that advocates (requires?) make up. If you would be so kind, please pass this message on to eyeliner and eye shadow, okay? They should have fair warning of the impending doom this unemployment malady has waged against the eye make up of the world!
Yours truly,
Mala
11.23.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Cereal Bowl
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to cereal bowl.
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Dear Cereal Bowl,
I couldn’t help but notice today that we have daily exchanges, yet we never talk. Certainly you have heard of this terrible condition I have contracted – unemployment. While it is not communicable (don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that to you), I still try to take the time to thank those things that help me through, just in case I find a way to infect them. True, this is a terrible reason to thank you, but you are a cereal bowl, and until I put you in the sink, you have no choice but to listen to me.
Cereal bowl, I still remember the first day we met. I was lost in the Brooklyn IKEA, and you were anxiously sitting in the 50 percent off bin in the kitchenware section. You had clearly been unemployed for quite some time, but I knew those asymmetric, gaudy petals you had painted on the side were petals of love. So I grabbed you, and for $1.99, I released you out of the brinks of unemployment in a bit of foreshadowing into my own unemployed demise.
You have probably noticed that during these days of unemployment, I have been eating an upwards of 7 to 8 bowls of cereal a day. This is due to the fact that this strain of unemployment is particularly incapacitating, and my ability to do anything of quality, including make a damn sandwich, is gone. Nevertheless, you stand by my side as I eat my happy “I have an interview!” bowls of cereal, to my sad “I fucked up the interview!” bowls of cereal, to my uncertain “Was that an interview or a magazine solicitation?” bowls of cereal. For this, I thank you, cereal bowl. You were commissioned for a 1-2 project per day job, but you have mastered this 4-fold increase in work beautifully.
I also want to thank you for being such a great listener, cereal bowl. Most of my unemployment rants are expressed over a bowl of cereal. My hatred of The Economist for praising New York in creating so many jobs last quarter, my hatred of my piece of crap phone cutting out at opportune moments, my hatred of not being born five years earlier…basically my hatred of everything. Lucky Charms, Peanut Butter Puffs, and Cinnamon Toast Crunch have boycotted my mouth, but cereal bowl, you have stuck by my side! You know how much I love to moan about my life, and you are there for me! So thank you! But I do ask you to go easy on the snide comments about how I eat cereal meant for 10-year-olds.
With sugar,
Mala
11.21.2010
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Harry Potter 7
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Harry Potter 7.
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Dear Harry Potter 7,
My God, you’re a heavy book. How the hell to children read you? Geez, lose some weight.
Anyway, two days ago, my parents called me and asked how long I had been sitting on the couch. After groaning for five minutes, I finally determined it to be 40.2 hours, so they bought me a ticket to see the movie version of you (Part 1!) in a cheap attempt to prompt internal bodily blood flow. This taught me a valuable lesson: buttered popcorn is delicious. No wonder there are so many fat people at the movies!
HP 7, I can call you that, right? HP 7? Well HP 7, you know this has been a difficult time for me. No no, I am not talking about unemployment, stop crying! This Harry Potter craze has been troubling, for you see, HP 7, though your inventor has perfected the use of precise and perfectly paced detail, I suffer from what is known as an “underactive imagination.” Along with the overwhelmingly boring childhood this caused, it also means I have no idea what the fuck is going on in you 90-95 percent of the time. Apparently, much of the world suffers from an underactive imagination, because there are so many books that turn into movies! So when your movie version opened, for the first time, HP 7, I finally understood what you are all about (Part 1!).
Thirty minutes into you, HP 7, something quite profound occurred to me. In the duration of these thirty minutes, the main characters are neither in school, nor are they accomplishing anything for direct payment nor compensation, even though they are actively trying to achieve something. HP 7, this means that four-eyes, the dumb redhead, and Ms. Smartass are essentially: UNEMPLOYED. You have thus taught me, HP 7, that unemployment is acceptable under certain circumstances, including:
1. Industrial collapse
2. Economic collapse
3. When an evil wizard named Voldemort takes over the magical world and endangers millions of muggles
Sure, I may have made an invalid comparison, and am using fictional characters in a fictional world to justify my status, but if you ignore all of these pesky details, my situation is completely satisfactory. So thank you HP 7. I may one day cease to use you as a giant paperweight, and instead read you cover to cover. But I will probably wait until after the second movie comes out and my parents decide to buy me another ticket.
With delusional gratitude,
Mala
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Scissors
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to scissors.
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Dear Scissors,
I woke up this morning to find a text message from you. I guess you heard through the grapevine you cut out that I wrote a letter to Chapstick yesterday, thanking it for all of it’s hard work during my struggles with the most horrendous of diseases: unemployment. Your passive-aggressive text made your point loud and clear – you are a good friend, and I have been ignoring your kind cuts far too long. This is for you, my darling scissors.
We’ve been through a lot, scissors. Through the highs and lows, the thins and thicks…well, it was mostly me that was thick. I mean, I was REALLY fat in middle school. Thank God I found athletic shoes and gym.
Anyway, my most recent fond memory of you and I, partners in crime, was in one of the most dangerous situations of all time: primary school. This past summer, we stood side by side, when I volunteered my time once more, as I am apparently unworthy of receiving any kind of compensation whatsoever for my work. But there we were – teaching children who survived refugee camps, war, pillage, and starvation – the important lessons of primary colors, shapes, and how the cow goes “Moo.”
Scissors, I may not be respected in the professional world, but damn, did those kids who don’t speak English appreciate my paper cutting skills! You and I, cutting out squares, circles, parallelograms, and other nonsense shapes! For six glorious weeks, I was queen of the classroom, the smartest of the lot, the most qualified candidate in the room. Screw those eight-year-old refugees! I WIN! I AM HIRED!
Now scissors, I hear your concerns. I know it’s sad I fail to get dressed until 3 o’clock most days, that my biggest accomplishment yesterday was charging my iPod, and that I spend at least one hour a week stroking my passport in a ceremonious commemoration of my globe-trotting glory days. But I want to let you know that your support means the world to me. You know better than most that I long for the days when I can actually buy the things they say can’t buy happiness, but oh so clearly can. Even in this pursuit, you help me, scissors.
Remember how I wanted that guitar? Remember how you convinced it wasn’t worth charging it to my credit card? Remember how you reminded me that I can’t play the guitar? Well, you were right, but I was still depressed when I didn’t buy that guitar. So that night, wow, you are SO sweet, scissors, you took advantage of that weird sleepwalking condition of mine, et voila! The next morning, I woke up at my desk, and there! You had made me a guitar, cut out of the finest cardboard Fresh Direct can buy! Scissors, that guitar is hanging on my wall. Sure, it’s the size of a Ukulele, and sure, it’s completely fake. But scissors, that guitar sings to me, especially when I have had too much white wine. It means the world to me, and so do you, scissors. So thank you.
With love,
Mala
Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Chapstick
I decided to start writing thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Chapstick.
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Dear Chapstick,
It’s November 18, 2010, which means my little brother turned 22 today. After the sad realization that he is more successful than I will ever be, I decided to stop pretending to be productive, and straight out waste time. So I decided to write a letter to you, and how you, my dear Chapstick, have helped me through this bout of plague I hatefully call unemployment.
Thanksgiving is coming up, which means it’s time to count one’s blessings and summarily stuff your face with genetically modified food. I am thankful for many things – some sappy, like good family and friends – and some far more important, like chocolate pie and Zappos.com. I thought about writing this letter to computer, but then realized that computer will see this as I am typing (such a waste if the surprise is spoiled). Plus, while computer keeps me connected to the places I can never afford to go to, it is also an infinite source of stress and rejection. I mean seriously computer, can’t you just fucking lie and tell me I got the job? When did you become so complacent!?
You, Chapstick, on the other hand, serve one and only thing: me. And what is more important than me? Oh, right, everything.
But even if the island of Manhattan combusted into flames half of those unemployed summer days, I need to look decent, and according to a Chinese proverb I made up, decency starts with moisturized lips. So Chapstick, even when the days seemingly mashed together, thank you for sticking by my side, for melting on my lips, and not in my hand. I may walk the streets of New York with a bleeding heart, but at least I avoid bleeding lips.
These questions are successfully evaded though, thanks to you, Chapstick. For six months now, you have come to my rescue, applying a fine coat of chemical-filled wax to my lips, which gives me enough time to stall, find an excuse to leave, and avoid answering the question altogether.
In conclusion, Chapstick, I just want to offer my sincere gratitude for your existence. I may be permanently addicted to you and come down with lip cancer or whatever, but you have satisfied so many of my needs in this spell of unemployment.
In the future, I hope to work with you more closely. For instance, should I ever get another interview, I will make sure to sail above the pack with you by my side. Mostly because I plan on using you to grease the walkway so my competitors slip, fall, and “decide to pursue other options.”
With love,
Mala
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