Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Birth Certificate

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Birth Certificate.

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Dear Birth Certificate,

As I was staring at ceiling this morning, I couldn’t help but notice that it had magically turned green. I also felt a sharp pain in my unfortunately large nose. That’s when I realized I was lying face down. As I turned around this morning to actually stare at ceiling, computer starting whining quite loudly. You see Birth Certificate, as much as I do to appease computer by watching its favorite TV shows (“Dancing with the Stars” and “When Sharks Attack”), computer has been getting a bit bitchy from all the news it reads about the current political situation.

It seems, Birth Certificate, that with poor job growth, two wars, and half the country believing gay people practice bestiality, Donald Trump’s toupee has been named czar of America. Trump’s toupee’s first order of business was to demand Obama re-release you, Birth Certificate, as apparently Hawaii may not actually be a state, and is instead where the US government keeps its stockpile of aliens from Mars and coconuts. Computer was very angry by this news because it was planning on taking a trip there and didn’t want to have to renew its passport. I wrote Congress a letter asking if Alaska is really a state, but Sarah Palin wrote back asking me to stop behaving like a terrorist.

Anyway, Birth Certificate, all this chatter about Hawaii got me thinking…about food. So I got a piece of pineapple pizza. But then it struck me! What if my parents lied to me, and I was actually born in India!? There are jobs in India! Lots of jobs! I’m not sure my election votes were actually counted, and Americans aren’t entitled to any benefits, so there is no way to know! If I was actually born in India, Birth Certificate, I would be able to apply to all of those jobs! After rummaging through “Outdated Shit” box for a few minutes, I finally found you sitting under AA Battery. Here it was at last, my ticket out of unemployment! According to you, Birth Certificate, I was born in…Orange! Wait, no, that’s county. I was actually born in…California!? What the F**k!

Well, with that brilliant plan foiled, I suppose there is only one thing left to do. We must release you, Birth Certificate, to the media. I have already contacted BBC News, CNN, and Facebook. So far, Facebook is the only one that responded. I hope this “Wall” is highly trafficked. With these bases covered, there is only one place left to go. That’s right, Birth Certificate, we must go see Trump’s toupee…

…So here we are, at Trump plaza, with only a few minor distractions at the Apple Store and four cupcake shops. Remember to address Trump’s toupee as “Mr. Toupee,” and to only make eye contact with the bangs. Also recite our terms, Birth Certificate. We would like a public apology, immediate cancellation of “Celebrity Apprentice,” and a bajillion dollars.

What’s that? What do you mean Trump’s toupee only cares about Obama’s Birth Certificate? Don’t put yourself down like that! Oooh, I see, questioning Obama’s Birth Certificate was only to erase the legitimacy of his presidency! So all I have to do to get my bajillion dollars is to become president of the United States! Well, that’s probably easier than getting a job, so after we stop and get a cupcake, let's make me the US president, Orange California Birth Certificate!

With Toupees,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to AA Battery

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to AA Battery.

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Dear AA Battery,

Does it bother you that when people see the letters “AA,” they think of their next door neighbor, Bill, who has a drinking problem and wears pleated pants?

Anyway, AA Battery, after two weeks of playing a very complicated computer game that involves throwing bananas in a monkey’s mouth, and…well, that’s it, I finally thought I had my arch nemesis, “TommyAge5,” beat! Right when I was about to toss my 948^th banana, my computer froze! “TommyAge5” won again! After trying my failsafe computer-restore techniques (shaking computer violently, singing, and hitting the enter button 400 times), I finally figured out that you, AA Battery, had unceremoniously died inside of computer mouse.

As I dug around in my closet, I found “Outdated Shit” box next to “WTF” box. I opened “Outdated Shit” box and found a pack of 20 of your colleagues sitting underneath CD player, dictionary, and Mel Gibson. AA Battery, what happened to us? At conception, we looked so promising! You were poised to be a 9-volt battery, and one day occupy a prestigious job in smoke detector, where you would alert everyone in the building every time a stove was turned on, when someone within a 2-mile radius was wearing Ralph Lauren cologne, and occasionally, save a family of four (plus dog) from a fire.

But as the years went on, AA Battery, we realized we would not rise to the prestige of smoke detector, and might instead be downgraded to a C battery that powers those flashlights firemen use to sort through rubble and kids use to scare each other on camping trips only white people seem to take. Now here we are, AA Battery, 20 to a pack for a one-battery job, used to power computer mice used by Bill the drunkard and “TommyAge5.” How did we get here, AA Battery? 19 of us unemployed, 1 of us overworked, all to do the thankless work of the world, while 9-volt and even C batteries take paid vacations and benefits despite having the cognitive abilities of my online cartoon monkey.

What we need to do, AA Battery, is reinvent ourselves. While 9-volt and C batteries poked fun of lithium battery in school, we sat idly by, neither converting into lithium ourselves, nor shoving lithium into a trashcan. Somehow our recognition of the genius, but steadfast ability to remain completely and totally idle has overrun our birthright expectations, and we sit here drowning in unemployment despair.

With these words of revolution and inspiration…I realize I have no idea what the hell to do. Really, AA Battery, I think this is why I ended up here in the first place. My words of motivation usually lead to no action plan and empty carbs. I would ask lithium battery, but it is too busy reinventing the world. I would ask 9-volt or C batteries, but they probably don’t understand 90 percent of what I just said. Do you have any ideas? No? Well, then I am going to find “TommyAge5” and take that asshole down!

With monkeys,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Mailbox

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Mailbox.

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Dear Mailbox,

As I was brushing my teeth last night, I congratulated myself for actually brushing my teeth last night. Also as I was brushing my teeth last night, I realized that every single one of my teeth were hurting. This could only be explained by two things. I was merely having a dream about brushing my teeth (my dreams have gotten boring while I have been under the influence of unemployment), or the toothpaste I found in the kitchen is not actually toothpaste, but instead yogurt in a tube. From watching the movie “Inception” 14 times, I knew the only guaranteed way to confirm I was not dreaming would be to die. But then if I were wrong, I would be dead. That would suck. So I decided to just eat whatever was in the tube. Thankfully, Mailbox, it turned out to be yogurt. But by the time I figured out I was not dreaming I was too tired to get real toothpaste, so I went to bed. Mailbox, I hope the conversation we had today was not just a dream. Imagine how insane I would sound if I told people what we talked about didn’t actually happen!

Anyway Mailbox, I decided a few weeks ago that “walk” is a very boring word. On my saunter this morning down to Pharmacy, I saw your lower lip sadly flapping in the wind. I may avoid listening to strangers’ sob stories, but I have a heart, Mailbox, so I asked you what’s wrong. You told me that in the past few years, you feel like you have lost your way. You used to be highly respected, for you used to transport all of life’s important documents: bills, invitations, boarding passes, and acceptance letters. Now with interwebs, you’ve been reduced to transporting junk mail, crappy movies on Netflix, and the occasional postcard from Malastan.

Mailbox, I understand. Just last year, I was on a 47-hour flight back from Dubai, writing a thesis about shit no one will ever read. I was doing productive-ish things, wearing socks that matched-ish, and saying intelligent-ish things! But this past year, I have been reduced to staring at computer, waiting for an email saying I got rejected for a job I didn’t even want in the first place. That used to be you, Mailbox! I used to get my rejections from you! And when the inevitable bad news came, it would be you that took the punch – literally! My parents had to buy three of you my senior year of high school. But now Mailbox, you only bring me joy! So I am writing this letter addressed to you, Mailbox, so you can open it up and understand how sadly dependent on Netflix I am.

Now Mailbox, I am also going to write something that may not be easy for you to hear. Though you contain envelopes and packages that sustain us victims of unemployment, it is also true that you may have reached your peak in life. I’m sure whoever created you had high hopes for your future, and indeed, you have served so many so well. However, in the case that interwebs are here to stay, please know that your glory days will not be forgotten. In an age when select pictures were mailed with careful consideration instead of posted with 350 others to Facebook, you reigned supreme, and you will not be forgotten. I say this out of a profound appreciation for you...and because I am deathly afraid I already peaked, too. But no matter what Mailbox, I am here to thank y…wait, hold on, I have an email.

I’ll finish this later,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Business Card

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Business Card.

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Dear Business Card,

During my last interview, HR rep pointed out that perhaps I should step up my professional game. I get confused on how to deal with these things, because in business school, everyone said don’t express your opinions and learn how to smile and nod at everything, especially if it involves agreeing that getting rid of Planned Parenthood will balance the national budget. But in grad school, they said don’t be another average drone that only knows how to smile and nod like a giant bobblehead, because that clearly demonstrates you learned your budgeting skills from frat boys in business school. So, I decided show my civil disobedience by wearing a hoodie, but made sure it was a neutral color to avoid any controversy.

After many hours of sketching ideas on Pad of Paper, I realized that I was using Chapstick instead of a pen. Though I usually find random red blobs of wax inspiring, this particular blob failed to conjure any ideas of genius. With a sad smile and nod, I threw away my work, and started with a fresh piece of paper. That’s when it hit me! I could start a company that makes little pieces of paper with personal information for distribution at meetings! I called this invention, “Personal Paper Piece.”

Unfortunately, someone came up with this idea at the birth of unnecessarily long and meaningless management titles. You know, when they came up with investment banking. These are commonly known as Business Cards. So, Business Card, I decided to acquire one of you. After many more hours of sketching with a proper writing tool (crayons), I came up with this:

Now that I am armed with you, Business Card, everyone has to take me seriously! I will be able to use words like “acumen,” “stakeholder,” “sustainable,” and “employed” without giggling! How you like me now, HR rep!?

With professionalism,

Mala

Unemployment Object Memoirs: A Tribute to Last Thread

I decided to write thank you notes to the various objects that are helping me get through unemployment. This edition is dedicated to Last Thread.

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Dear Last Thread,

Last Saturday, after spending 72 hours mourning the death of very promising cure to my unemployment, I decided that my life should take a more spiritual path, and embarked on a soul-searching journey through the mystifying wonders of the world. Last thread, it was beautiful! I saw things I never thought possible: monks dancing in the street, artists debating existentialism, labyrinths of streets containing people from all walks of life, and beautiful views of earth’s greatest waterfronts. Sadly, after running into a fat tourist with a Magnolia cupcake, I realized I had only made it to the West Village.

Dejected, I wandered into a tea shop on 7^th Ave South that only serves coffee, and sat down to ponder the meaning of my existence once more. But this got boring really quickly. As I got up to eat the cupcake I stole from the fat tourist, I heard a voice behind me say something very poignant, “It looks like you’re hanging on by one last thread.” Indeed I was, last thread, indeed I was. I started to explain how my life, like cupcake, had come crumbling down, when the voice (contained in 40 year-old woman), said, “No no. I meant your jeans. It looks like they are hanging on by one last thread.”

That’s when I discovered you, last thread. It appears that since I have been wearing the same pair of jeans every day for the past four months, the entire lining disintegrated into a fine dust, save you. Much like the proverbial last thread holding my brain together, you, last thread, are the only thing holding my pants together. Pants, head. Head, pants. Whilst eating fat tourist’s cupcake, I decided to author this letter, last thread, in an effort to commemorate my spiritual journey through the grandiose depths of Christopher Street by connecting proverb and literal through rhetoric…what the hell am I talking about again?

Anyway last thread, I realize that you have done your job splendidly, and it’s the rest of pants’ fault that everything fell apart. I realize that despite your resolve to work hard, play by the rules, stay current, and plan ahead, pants just crapped out. And now you are literally hanging on by a thread, trying to do the work of an entire failed system. But if you could find it in your heart to push past this overt metaphor comparing pants to a failed capitalist economy, and regenerate a few thousand times, I would greatly appreciate your hard work once more. An NYU undergrad just threw up next to me, and the rent for this booth is $1300 a month, so I need to get out of here like now.

With poorly drawn literary devices,

Mala