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

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