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 Unfortunately, I don’t have any outdated Men-in-Black style sunglasses, and I spent all but 45 cents of my money on ginger snaps, so that didn’t work.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
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