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I would tell you what I did for work today but then I’d have to kill you.

No, seriously, I signed a confidentiality death clause, otherwise known as a non-disclosure agreement. So all I can say is that it was rad, paid very little, but was the equivalent of taking a quadriplegic to a swimming pool in August. Free fajitas at work? Check. Coffee and lunch-break where I was offered margaritas? Check and check. I spent the day with an effervescent, deliriously happy secretary who talked nonstop about how employees were allowed to bring their dogs, have tattoos, throw parties and how she loved work so much that she never wanted to leave. Of course there are no jobs available at this company. Today was just a freelance gig for a friend, eight hours of work for fifty bucks, but still. Freedom’s just another word for food stamps.

Before you start connecting the dots between the previous posting and today’s allow me to say here and now that no, it was not porn or prostitution. Clothes stayed on. The only shower I took occurred at the end of the day and no alloys were thrown in the mix. But it was still fun and easy money.


Yesterday I took a look at a 1960’s self-help book entitled Success Through a Positive Mental Attitude. I have been told that I can be a trifle vitriolic and difficult when it comes to walking on the proverbial sunny side of the street. I can argue that this is because I both sunburn easily and enjoy complaining. In my previous job with the internet start-up I was told that I was “too East Coast” and cold on the telephone. So I picked up Success with the hope that it would both lead to a warmer, more cuddly me as well as a steady job. I hoped that the words of the author, W. Clement Stone, would be like oil to the rain rusted New York joints of my Portland tin-man, that from leafing through Success I would glide easily into a more easy-going and smiling work persona.

It was hilarious.

First of all, according to this book, “Definiteness of purpose is the starting point of all achievement.” Well, I have moved to Portland, the unofficial hometown of, “meh,” shrug. It seems that out here the starting point of all achievement is whatever you put your weed in. For my razor-tongued self the only thing that’s definite is that I don’t have enough money to live in this town beyond April, and my purpose is to avoid leaving here at all fucking costs. Being that there are NO FUCKING JOBS it doesn’t seem likely that I can apply for a permanent position, secure a career, and receive a paycheck in time to prevent JetBlue from transporting my sniffling self back to Nassau County with nothing more than a blog and a couple of bruises to show for it. Thanks, positive mental attitude, for being as flaky as most of the people I’ve met in the 503. You say you’re coming? You’re just waiting until you finish downloading the latest Decemberists’ album? Yeah, well. Hurry up and get here.

“No matter who you are you can have a Magnificent Obsession.” Okay. This just sounds creepy. My last magnificent obsession was named Rachel and she had a labret piercing. I do believe that there is something sincere within this quote though, and it pertains to life in all fifty states: it’s true, no matter who you are, you can have a restraining order put out against you for peering in people’s windows late at night carrying a six pack of Pabst and a dozen (dead) roses.

Stone Not-So-Cold also recommends a daily mantra for positive self-suggestion to boost your PMA –

“I feel healthy! I feel happy! I feel terrific!”

I have tweaked this and modernized it to better suit the century and my personality.

“Fucking hell, I’m awake. I want to cut a bitch. Now where the hell is my change from last night, I need to get an espresso.”

Lastly, Stone says the very weighty statement “You are what you think.” In this case I am both bullshit and therefore also a self-help book.

Maybe I just didn’t practice the mantra hard enough.


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