Before you read any further, I would like to let you know that Simon Goetz, my business partner and owner of the genitalia I use to enhance the functionality of my own, has his own blog. It is smaller and yet more powerful than the average website, but even with the fledgling success of Shows I Missed, Simon cannot escape a single, cold, hard fact (other than the fact that he totally is going to get his ass pwned in Boggle later on) and that is he owes me a post for my blog, Jerk Ethic, the one you are reading right now.
Yes, a post that is, by now, so absurdly overdue that I will publish one mortifying fact about Simon along with each posting of Jerk Ethic until he turns in his assignment. We’ll start with this one: he’s bald. That’s right, completely and totally, skin-shaven bald. Line up your stripes and solids, kids, ‘cause cue ball over there is about to be racked and broken.
The theme for my life recently has been trust. That fickle and ephemeral beast of faith, like a narwhal cutting its single horn of “I told you so” through the waters of cynicism and skepticism, has finally speared me through both ventricles of my icy heart.
For one, there is the obvious trust that I must put in my love life. No, just because my beloved likes girls who have ass and freckles does not mean he’s going to stick it in Strawberry Shortcake. No, just because my recent haircut has rendered me more gay than a Melissa Etheridge album wrapped in pages of the most recent issue of The Advocate and mailed to Portia and Ellen as a wedding present, it does not mean that he will pursue the more feminine wiles of, say, the hot, redheaded barista with the wholly moley cleavage serving him an Americano. I trust that our gruesome twosome is strong. So trust issue number one has been conquered. For now.
As for work, my desperate harangue of hope is shouted in the direction of our clients. Just like the fiancée who was left at the altar checks her watch compulsively while waiting for her first date since the white dress fiasco, I now find that, since being burned by deadbeats, I don’t even believe the honest folks who’ve paid us our nifty 50% up-front. What if they don’t turn in the other half? What if the project that has been discussed for next month doesn’t come through? What if their company is full of shit?
It’s easy to become paranoid when the legs you’re standing on are less stable than a fawn on a rope bridge. If you’ve faced potential eviction or starvation it’s very hard to believe that the small amount you have in your account won’t dwindle and suddenly be gone. You need to rely on the oral — and hopefully also written — contracts of those you work for, and place your convictions in the goodness of man. Or something.
It’s easy to believe, in a field as faith-based as writing, where you’re hired to create something literally out of thin air, that the pocketbooks of those who pursue you are as fabricated as the words you type. But instead you just have to rest assured that you’re good enough, you’re smart enough, and gosh darnit, people want to hire you. And they will, and they‘ll pay you, and the project will be as riveting as a strobe-lit and sequined strip-show. There have been douches, oh yes, many douches, but this time around it’s best to just hum Bon Jovi and hold your breath.
Just like the moment where Chip from accounting holds out his arms to catch your backward fall, and just like the spinster whose date shows up on time with roses, learning that every client isn’t a swindling, lying dick nozzle is one that teaches you, yet again, that everything’s going to be all right.
I told you so.
Write me as a team building exercise: AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.