Well now.

Over the past couple of months I've been hired at four places. I am currently still unemployed because I've quit said jobs--in really interesting ways that allow me no face-to-face interaction. Perfect. I'm also attempting to break the world record for longest period of unemployment for a resident of 59 Murray St. (HEY STALKERS, that's my address, downstairs apartment: come one, come all. I've got a whole 30 rack of Coors Light and "Porkys" on DVD)

I should be embarrassed about my work cop-outs, but, I'm not. There are only so many times in life when quitting a job via email, text, phone call from my "mother" can be as exciting. I bet quitting your job at 40 (with a family of 10 to provide for) because you thought "casual friday" included the use of expletives in the office, ass-slapping the secretaries and drinking gin from a Poland Spring bottle (I would have believed it was water!), isn't as awesome. So, why not quit now?!

What is a problem though, is that I seem to be addicted to the feeling I get after I send the email or hang up the phone: I am so fucking thrilled. I can do whatever I want! I can order chinese from the Chinese (go figure) place, a block away, have it delivered and answer the door in tights and a t-shirt, because I'M UNEMPLOYED. I can learn to read. I can watch my neighbors.

Who cares if I only have 20 dollars in my wallet and 6 dollars in quarters. I love paying in change. It provides for more face-time and therefor the possibility of making a new friend emerges. In all honesty, I used to be responsible and suck it up at these jobs. I didn't mind filling those ranch dressing containers, wearing white aprons and an oversized mens shirt, looking so fly--like a middle school boy in maternity jeans. But NOW, that I've got all the time in the world to think about the bad decisions I make, the proclamations of love I shouldn't be making, the grades I should be getting, the classes I shouldn't be skipping, I can't help but want to stay out of the working world.

Oh, also, I'm graduating. College. In a few weeks. Ok. A month or two. Actually I'm not really sure of the date and I'm too lazy to use this helpful tool called the internet. It's too slow for me. People keep asking me what I'm going to do, once I'm an adult. Hmm. I was thinking about sleeping for as long as possible and maybe FINALLY learning how to sing the alphabet backwards. In reality, I need a job. Because I have a penchant for dresses and expensive itunes movie rentals ($5.99, WHAT). So, if you're hiring for a lady who can't spell, got a D in college (who needs philosophy? I'm trying to get rich or I will die trying) and who doesn't know where the dollar sign goes (I had to look it up), then I'm your girl.

207-841-8304.

Get Rich Or Live In The North End

As I write this, I’m sitting on my childhood futon, sans the futon hardware—just cushy, mildew-y comfort, drinking a Key Stone Light and eating Saltines. If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m poor. Poor, poor, poor. I’m living the life of luxury in the Old North End of Burlington, Vermont, my mother’s dish towels hanging on the walls, my pantry only home to flour, sugar, vanilla, oatmeal and ramen noodles.

But it’s entirely my own fault, living in this squalor. You see, I just spent the past semester in Perugia, Italy, with my parents credit card tucked safely into my wallet. Then the summer money I worked so hard for, bussed so many tables for, dissipated pretty quickly over there in the land of da Vinci and pancetta.

And thus began the digging—digging myself into a pretty deep hole of shit: of scary debt collectors, frightening bill statements and depressing account balances as I charged, charged, charged on my card. 20 shots of tequila? CHARGE IT. 50 pairs of tights. That's why these goddamn cards exist. So that’s where I’m at on this frigid February 4, 2010, in my tiny house with barren pantry walls.

I’m going to attempt to work off my credit card debt (oh, you know, totaling around $ 4,000) and enjoy the Burlington bars and get straight A’s and find a job. Holla.