#and i had to use my unemployment checks to buy my own shit but you know | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fuck-customers · 3 years

Text

Hello lovelies, been a while since I submitted. But this time I'm submitting on behalf of my friend. Let's call her Bev (not her real name obvi). Long post ahead, tl;Dr at bottom.

Bev used to work at my university's Filet of Chix. She became blue shirt in like two years. She was very good at managing and keeping the line going, which I even saw personally when I went in there some days. She ended up leaving due to a mix of medical concerns and high school level drama over the summer.

Around June of this year, she decided she was gonna find another job. She ended up applying and immediately getting hired on at a local ice cream store. She was excited. It paid 8.50 but with tips it could be up to $12 or $16 an hour - which is no problem during the summer as their tips jars are constantly overflowing. Bev was excited for the pay increase, seeing as how she was leaving a job that only paid her $10.05 an hour.

Bev starts, and her location is actually six buildings down from where I work. I go get her on my lunch breaks, take her to work, she rides home with someone else at the end of the night (cant drive due to her previously mentioned medical issues) It's a good arrangement. She gets along with her coworkers, her coworkers even start being buddy buddy with me.

Then the shit hits the fan maybe like. Three weeks into her starting. There is another girl who has been there for a while, let's name her Lee. When Bev was looking for a job and had inquired about the ice cream store hiring, Lee encouraged her as a) they desperately needed help and b) Lee bragged that she was able to afford tattoos with how much tip money they got. Bev even admitted that she may have had a slight crush on Lee forming (despite us having known her for five minutes, bless) so we figured she was chill.

Bev starts working and it's a few shifts before she finally works with Lee, who is considered a shift lead. The more Bev works with Lee the more they start to rub each other the wrong way - Lee gets snappy and rude during rushes, starts to panic, Bev instinctively takes control to get people out the door. Lee apparently sees this as Bev trying to come in and take her position as shift lead - which Bev does not want as she just wants money to be able to buy groceries with. Lee starts to get short with Bev. Doesn't talk to her unless it's to tell her to go clean bathrooms or take out trash. Lee also likes to hide in the back on her phone, only stand at the register on her phone, or stand in the way of everyone trying to get ice cream scooped and all that IN FRONT OF GUESTS. She also makes openly crude sex jokes in front of kids, makes customers uncomfortable complaining about her own health issues, and even cussed out a customer for clarifying what flavor they wanted when someone ELSE was working on scooping the order.

"Wow Kyrie, that doesn't sound like very appropriate behavior for a shift lead at an ice cream store." You're right. Which is why Bev complained to the owner. Along side some other coworkers who are also fed up with Lee's behavior. Not to mention if you go on Doodle and look up this ice cream store there are reviews literally complaining about Lee's behavior, one star reviews. Supposedly there are also cameras in the store that record audio as well. Lee has apparently been coached and fussed at about her behavior before, even before Bev started working there.

The place is short staffed, so letting her go is a tough decision apparently. Lee is also the only one who can reliably go back and forth between this location and the one in a town 30 minutes away, supposedly. Lee tells me this when I come in to drop off Bev one day and I need ice cream as I can feel myself getting light headed from having not eaten. Lee is excitedly chatting with me, not even acknowledging Bev trying to clock in at the damn register but can't because Lee is blocking it.

Bev complains to the owners again. Owners tell her they will talk with Lee. This pattern of Lee being rough with Bev continues for a couple of weeks. Some days I go in after I get off work because I want the sugar, and Bev is working. I witness the behavior Bev has talked about - Lee hiding on her phone, Lee making tasteless jokes, one time Lee even came over to my table during a rush to complain about her hip while a large group of families were placing orders and everyone else was running around scooping ice cream and making cones and ringing them up - Bev included.

Even better: Bev's medical issues make it so sometimes she'll have minor seizures and needs to sit. Owners said they understood, there's a stool she can sit on to ring out customers, just bring in a doctor's note when she can. Bev is in the process of getting an official doctor's note when the owners decide to take away the stool and say that no one can sit because Lee will sit on it on her phone in front of customers. They also start to doubt Bev's claims about her medical issues when the doctors note doesn't come in after two weeks (her fucking doctor up and left the practice and the office staff didn't want to produce a note until they heard back from the doctor. Lovely!)

Junp forward to about a month and a half after Bev starts working there. Classes start back up so Bev only works weekends.

She goes onto the app they use to check schedules and sees that she's not even been rostered after her last shift. She mentions it to another shift lead she's on good terms with who says they will mention it to the owner. Bev decides to just take the days off to catch up on school work.

The following week she can't even log onto the app. Says her credentials are invalid. She goes to change her password and it won't even let her do that as the app is saying she's not even in the system. Calls me up after I get off my job that day to talk about it - as she's going through other issues and this is the straw that broke the camels back. Why can't she even log in to see when she's working now? Is it because she's complained about Lee? When it has been presented that Lee is a problem in that workplace? She texts the shift lead she's on good terms with again, who says they'll ask the owner what's going on.

Today (Sept. 6th) Bev messages me. She had apparently submitted a request to officially rejoin the scheduling app and it was rejected by the owner of the store. Good shift lead knows nothing. A couple days ago I had gone into the store to get my parents some ice cream (their request) and Lee was still working there; her and the other employees still acting buddy buddy with me. So I know that Lee is still there but Bev isn't.

It appears, my friends, that Bev has been let go in the most UNPROFESSIONAL manner I have ever seen. She's not even been contacted by the owners about missing any shifts - not that it appears she even had any to miss.

I question the legalities of this. Yes, unfortunately we live in an at-will state and I have heard of things like this happening before where people technically are "fired" by not being scheduled or even contacted by management. I'm encouraging Bev to apply for unemployment to help her while she's in school, since I think she has a case here. It sucks, but I think she'll benefit in the end as she can now focus on her school and hopefully get a source of income elsewhere.

Tl:Dr- my friend Bev quits Christian chicken store to work at an ice cream store. Starts off well, rubs arms with another employee who has been known to be a problem child. Bev ends up being the one let go without even being told anything by management. She wants even there three months.

#submissions #fuck customers #cashier problems #fuck co-workers #fuck retail #embarrassing #server problems #fuck coworkers #fuck managers #retail law #tw:#long post

99 notes · View notes

paullicino · 3 years

Text

Ten Years

Taken from my Patreon.

Ten years is a long time. It’s long enough for many things to change, but also long enough for everything to remain the same.

I remember ten years ago as if it were yesterday, as if it passed by in the blink of an eye, with light and shadow, textures and taste all as familiar as ever.

A morning after. Shocked faces. A phone call. Events barely believable, yet all too real.

Ten years ago, my then partner and I were living in a top floor flat off Tottenham High Road. It was sweltering in the summer and the downstairs neighbours played dance music at four in the morning. But the views out the back bedroom window were of valleys of rooftops, sprouting television aerials and summited in the winter by the briefest dustings of snow.

The sun was for the front of the flat. The moon shone into our bedroom.

I remember that sunlight in the afternoon, sparkling through the shifting foliage of the tall trees outside. And I remember summer most of all. August.

We had a tap. A faucet. A great, overwrought thing that our landlady was obsessed with. It was the best tap ever, she said. It was large, curved and heavy, the pharaonic headdress worn atop a newly-fitted kitchen of which she was so proud. Wasn’t it exciting that we had such a good tap?

We just wanted our bed repaired. Our home wasn’t finished when we moved in and we slept on the sofa for weeks. When the mighty tap was finally installed, it was too heavy for its fitting. It teetered. Along with poorly-mounted cupboard doors with handles that prevented other cupboards from opening, its practicality was an afterthought.

The walk up Tottenham High Road took me to the only two locations I ever really visited, the supermarket and the job centre. The supermarket provided us with affordable food (though I’d watched the price of many staples almost double over five years) and the job centre provided me, an unemployed person, the money with which to buy that food.

The job centre, which was now extra special and had been rebranded Job Centre Plus, did not provide anyone the means with which they could get a job. It spent almost all of its time providing people with unemployment benefits. Most of the thousands of Tottenham residents who poured through its doors would’ve taken a job if they could’ve found one, but the listings at the centre itself were usually out of date, irrelevant or in some other way misfiled. Most employers don’t want to list their vacancies at the Job Centre Plus because they don’t want to employ the kind of people who go there.

Out of the Job Centre Plus and the supermarket, which one do you think burned that August?

I have written before about my strongest memory of the Job Centre Plus, but here it is again. It was of an old foreign woman and her daughter trying to speak to a clerk. The old woman didn’t speak English, so her daughter was attempting to explain that the woman was looking for work and thus registering as unemployed to gain unemployment benefit. The clerk was trying to explain that the woman was too old to work and should also be on disability benefit. The daughter was trying to explain that they had tried to navigate those systems and that they were obtuse and broken. Her mother just needed money. To live.

(Ten years before, in the summer of 2001, I’d first looked at the cost of moving out. I looked at rents around my Hampshire town, at the cost of housing and at the wages I needed to earn. England was expensive, I decided. It sure cost a lot just to live.)

Everyone was trying to explain everything. The job centre mostly wanted to give people their money and get rid of them, because there were many more lined up behind.

My strongest memory of the supermarket was of the man outside with no legs. He sat there panhandling in his wheelchair almost every day of the year. Britain had just launched its latest Astute-class nuclear submarine, each of which costs over one and a half billion pounds, but it was still a country where a man with no legs had to beg outside a shop.

I thought about that man long after I left Tottenham. I think about him here, now, ten years on.

My partner went abroad to see family and I spent some of the summer restarting my career as a freelance writer. I was fortunate with the connections and opportunities that I had, none of which would ever be found at a job centre, and I spent a lot of my time writing either to find work or simply for practice. I was writing on the night my street burned.

It began before dusk and I came home to find enormous police vehicles parked outside, the sort that are mobile command headquarters. Chains of armoured riot vans surged north. I heard there’d been a protest outside the police station and that a car or two had been burned. I checked the news occasionally. It didn’t have much to add.

Police vans kept coming, though all other traffic had stopped. The roads were closed, blocked by the police, and the latest news told me that petrol bombs had been thrown and a bus set alight. The reports were sparse.

The police in England are really good at responding to riots. They turn up in great swathes, on horses, in vans, or on foot and armed with batons and shields. They have all kinds of exciting equipment to help them. A year before, they’d kettled schoolchildren protesting the huge increase in university tuition fees, surrounding and slowly crushing hundreds of them in Trafalgar Square and on Westminster Bridge. Footage emerged of them beating the shit out of kids or dragging people out of wheelchairs. Here they were now in Tottenham, ready for more.

I kept trying to find news. The police had cordoned off most of the High Road, which meant the journalists that were arriving had no ability to find what was happening inside the riot. Distant footage of fires was the best most of them could provide. As I remember it now, the BBC had one van inside of the police cordon and couldn’t broadcast out because its dish had been damaged. I also have memories of a single journalist, almost in the thick of a mob, asking rioters to give them a moment to explain why they were protesting, or wondering why on earth they might want to block a BBC camera crew who were trying to film them.

What an inane question.

I found the news I wanted. I found it via Twitter and social media. And it was terrifying.

Broadcast news had described a riot not unlike any other. But the still relatively new sphere of social media was overflowing with witness statements, photographs and the kind of low-quality video that phones captured back then. People across Tottenham were panicking as they described growing crowds on the High Road burning not only vehicles, but also shops and businesses. They were breaking into commercial properties. They were looting. They were starting more fires. This had begun half a mile away from my home and it was spreading outward. The post office burned. Landmark businesses burned. Local shops burned and, with them, the flats and homes located above.

The updates kept coming and it’s almost impossible for me now to try to describe to you not only the sheer volume of panic and distress that waterfalled down my feed, but also the sense of utter hopelessness that came with it. People beyond the High Road described not just the violence spilling into their streets, the fights and the hundreds of looters, the fires and the damage, but also how there was no one who could stop this. No emergency services responded. Their phones went unanswered or the lines were jammed.

I read update after update that echoed the same, basic fact, something which I still struggle to comprehend even now, something I’d describe as barely believable: No help was coming.

But the social media updates kept coming. Looters were turning up with empty vans and loading them up with everything they could take. Buildings were being destroyed. A whole estate was being evacuated.

The news provided by the BBC and its peers remained limp and languid, so I spent all night reading these updates, discovering more nearby shops were being gutted, or how the retail park near me was looted to the point of emptiness, and I watched as even my own view out the window became broiling crowds of countless restless and angry people. I remember one man walking off into the darkness with brand new flatscreen televisions under each arm, the police vans now long gone. The night was regularly punctuated by shouts, screams, thumps and sometimes what might have been explosions. The sirens were always distant. The helicopters came and went.

I don’t know where the police cordon had gone. It felt almost as if they had given up and let Tottenham run rampant.

The sun came up and from that back bedroom window I saw smoke rising. I hadn’t slept. The news was full of irrelevant speculation and so, at five-thirty, I put on my shoes and walked the High Road. What I saw was barely believable. Sometimes I met the stunned gazes of other people doing the same, sometimes I avoided any eye contact. I have kept a diary for a long time now and this is what I recorded (slightly edited):

“This morning at about 5:30, as the sun rose, I tried to wander through Tottenham to take some pictures. It became one of the scariest walks I've ever taken.

The atmosphere was tense and unpleasant. Columns of smoke snaked upwards and the High Road and several other streets were blocked off or packed with police vehicles, many more of which were endlessly arriving, some from as far away as Kent.

The nearby retail park was littered with debris and many of its shopfronts were smashed. Groups of people, perhaps gangs, loitered everywhere. While some areas were busy with police officers, others were neglected and patrolled by hostile looking young men.

I didn't end up taking many pictures. I kept moving. Depending upon where you walk, Tottenham looks like a cross between a blitz bomb site and the mess after a chaotic festival.

Something still feels very different. Tottenham has hardly been rosy at the best of times, but today the sunshine can't seem to dispel a strange chill in the air. I myself can't stop thinking of all the homes that burned last night. It might not be immediately obvious to many people, but above a great deal of those shops set ablaze were flats, often family homes for very poor people. Many of those who had little now have less.”

A day after those first riots hit Tottenham, they went nationwide. London wasn’t done and, for a week, many major cities in England played host to their own riots. Tottenham was totally locked down, but it was far too late. The disorder had moved elsewhere.

I remember telling a colleague I worked with that I wouldn’t be finishing something that weekend. He laughed at the news and imagined it would all blow over. He was from a much wealthier background.

Then, everyone started trying to explain everything.

The BBC caught up with events the way a great-grandparent catches up with technology, fumbling and frowning. Goodness me, they said, in their middle class, broadcast-trained voices, and they joined in with the three broad lines of discussion that emerged. One asked how this could happen, one asked why this had happened, and one was about how this would never happen again, because the law would be firmer than ever, the punishments and prosecutions authoritative and absolute. The police were ready for more. They were going to get water cannons. I imagine those work particularly well on kids and wheelchairs.

There was a lot of talk about punishment, including from the Prime Minister, who decided to stop being on holiday in Tuscany only after England’s third night of rioting. I wonder if he had imagined it would all blow over.

Sometimes there was talk involving the people of Tottenham themselves, but it was more likely to be talk about them. A lot of people in Tottenham are Black and have families that trace back to the very first Windrush immigrants of the late 1940s. One Black Labour MP said it was important to talk about their experiences in London, their economic situation and their history of treatment by the police. After all, the spark that had set these riots alight was a protest outside the police headquarters, subsequent to the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan, a Black man, something that called to mind a similarly suspicious death of a Black woman that also precipitated Tottenham’s 1985 riots.

For some people, the discussion became about how Black people had started the riots and been the chief participants. This wasn’t reflected in anything I saw either on social media or with my own eyes, in person, on the night. But nobody was stopping to ask me what I thought or what I saw.

Not long after that first riot, my partner called me to check I was okay and to ask if those barely believable things she’d seen on the news were really as bad as they seemed. They were. I rode the bus up the High Road on my way to Wood Green, then later to Walthamstow, both of which offered me temporary job centres that took the overspill from ours, thoroughly gutted by fire and then looted of all of its copper piping. The bus crept past burned-out shops and homes. I don’t know where those people have gone.

Later that year, my partner and I discovered that our income was low enough that we were eligible for housing benefit. It took us so long to try to apply for it that we moved home before any progress was made. When I found enough work to support myself, I visited the job centre to sign off, as we called it, to close my file. I asked a woman at reception what I needed to do. “Nothing,” she said, as the line behind me wound down several stories of stairs and out into the grey autumn street. “Just stop coming. Stop coming.”

Winter came and things rustled in the walls. There was a long, tall hedge along the High Road and I would look out the window to see men using it as a urinal. I only had to live in Tottenham for around a year and a half and I have good memories from that flat, but I also remember a stifling and sad place to live, from which I was lucky to move on. Tottenham was never my home and I never had to stay there, but I certainly feel that I came to get a sense of the place.

After moving out, our ex-landlady complained that we hadn’t left the oven as clean as she would’ve liked. She hiked the rent 9% while we were staying there. She never fixed anything that broke and provided excuses instead of solutions.

I found more work. I taught games and narrative for a semester at a small institution in East London. One of the things I asked my students to consider was the stories and the experiences of people who weren’t like them. I asked them to share how often they had been stopped and randomly searched by airport security. “Not just at the airport,” one student reminded me. “On the tube. On the street.”

My life continued to improve in many ways, but I still remembered the man in the wheelchair. The BBC and many other media outlets continued to talk about poverty and race, but not always to poor people or to people who weren’t white. In 2014 I wrote On Poverty and one of the most surprising responses I repeatedly received from people was “I had no idea that it was like this.” A friend of mine tried to apply for support for chronic health problems and documented her many struggles, including being required to explain exactly how many times a week she suffered from migraines (“You said it was two or three times a week. Well, is it two, or is it three?”). The news regularly reported growing homelessness, rising use of food banks and the inevitable deaths of people who weren’t just failed by broken systems, apathy and a lack of understanding, but also simply too poor to be alive.

I feel like some of the people I knew didn’t like how I kept returning to these topics. I feel, even more, that they didn’t at all understand. I remember some of these people waiving off the Brexit referendum as it approached, certain the country wouldn’t vote to amputate itself from the European Union. I don’t think they understood and I don’t think they’d seen the unhappy England that I had, both as a child and as an adult. I think they’d only seen, and been, very comfortable people.

I think these people would call themselves open-minded, progressive and keen to make the world better. I’m sure they could explain those views. At length.

If I think of those people now, I’m quite sure they are all still very comfortable, ten years on. I also think there is still a good chance that man is sat in that wheelchair outside of that supermarket, though he could also be dead by now, again simply too poor to be alive. No longer able to watch the sun sparkle through tall trees, see roofs dusted with snow or catch the moon peeping through his bedroom window.

Such things aren’t for poor people. We still get frustrated when we give them benefits or find out they own mobile phones.

---

Ten years on, Tottenham is almost a dream, a memory where the details have faded and the edges have softened. I have moved countries, had the privilege of travelling through work, enjoyed many different creative opportunities and benefited from free healthcare that has addressed difficult, long-term health issues. I have rationed my life according to a tight budget, but I’ve never had to face the overwhelming, unending hardships of others that I’ve shared neighbourhoods and postcodes with. I cannot ignore these people because they have so often been one street away, visiting the same shop or riding the same train. They are not an abstraction, they are right there, ready to tell us all about their lives.

Ten years on, Tottenham has one of the UK’s fastest-growing rates of unemployment, the latest statistic in the region’s long history of joblessness and poverty. Many of its residents, like poor people across the country, live paycheck to paycheck, at risk of financial ruin should they experience a single upheaval. Ten years on, the most reliable predictor of success and financial stability in the UK (as in many developed countries) is now considered to be the circumstances of your birth. The idea of social mobility is more irrelevant than ever, with much of your destiny decided before you are even born. Ten years on, almost a quarter of the population of the UK lives in poverty.

Ten years on, continued austerity, government apathy and cuts to social services has meant that, yes, ten years really is enough time for everything to stay the same. Without change, the problems people face become generational, systemic. Some people tell me that the 1980s were like this for certain families, regions, populations. I didn’t know. We were doing okay. Perhaps I didn’t get it, didn’t notice it, didn’t want to think about it.

Ten years on, Mark Duggan’s family filed a civil claim against the Metropolitan Police and were awarded an undisclosed sum, after his death was officially ruled a lawful killing in 2014. Lawyers for the Duggan claim commissioned this in-depth report on the shooting, which illustrated many problems with the official police version of events.

Ten years on, the UK government is trying to curtain the right to protest. It commissioned a review that concluded that the country has no systemic racism. It wants to limit the powers of the Electoral Commission and has considered conflating the concepts of whistleblowing and leaking with spying, meaning those who leak information could be treated as criminals. It is increasingly intent on punishing those who might express dissatisfaction.

And ten years on, as we all know, wages have not risen to match the rising costs of rent, food, utilities or transport. It sure costs a lot just to live.

Finally, in 2018, the UN Special Rapporteur on Poverty and Human Rights visited the United Kingdom and did speak with many of its poor. The resulting exhaustive and damning report concluded that “statistics alone cannot capture the full picture of poverty in the United Kingdom” and that “much of the glue that has held British society together since the Second World War has been deliberately removed and replaced with a harsh and uncaring ethos.” It described harsh, ill-conceived and out-of-touch support systems devised and doubled down on by a government that not only failed to understand poverty, but that couldn’t even measure it accurately. It also predicted that these things would only get worse, and without any consideration of the effect of extraordinary events, such as a global pandemic.

The government described the report as “barely believable.”

I don’t think any help is coming.

---

There’s a question that sometimes bounces around social media and it asks people this: “What radicalised you?” As if there was some moment that changed a person’s political beliefs and rearranged their perspective on the world.

Here’s the thing. I feel like my perspective is from the floor, skewed and sore after I fell between two stools, always unable to find an identity amongst wider British culture. I grew up too comfortable, too spoiled and too well-spoken to call myself working class, but I was easily alienated by schoolfriends with multiple bathrooms and university-educated parents. My interests and my sentiments aren’t supposed to be working class, but many of my life experiences and even philosophies are. I know what it’s like to memorise Shakespeare and to explain themes in Romantic-era art, as much as I know what it’s like to fight government systems that are ostensibly supposed to help, to be unable to afford your own home, to walk into a supermarket and look at staple foods you still can’t afford. You think about Descartes and then you think about which dinner provides the cheapest way to keep your body alive.

When I was a kid I remember going to friend’s houses where they were too poor to clean the carpet, or seeing them lose a parent to lung cancer, or the time someone showed me a gun hidden in their brother’s car. As an adult I wrote to my politicians to ask them what they were doing about poverty, about education, about the cost of living. I went to protests and signed petitions and supported charities both practically and financially. I suppose I was trying to articulate some of the skills I’d learned from in some situations to articulate the experiences I’d had in others. Surely you have to do something.

I both resent and appreciate aspects of both classes and I imagine I’ll never work out who I am or what I’m supposed to call myself. But I do know there are vastly different worlds and vastly different experiences within British culture and that many continue to be overlooked even when in plain sight. And it’s what I find most frustrating.

If there was one thing I learned, if not one thing that radicalised me, it wasn’t simply that poverty never goes away, it’s that it always needs to be explained. There are always, always people who don’t get it, who don’t notice it, who don’t want to think about it or who will puzzle over it from a distance as if it were some transient mirage they can never hope to touch. Those in power will continue to make decisions about poverty that they do not experience, in spite of the fact that making financially comfortable people the authority on money is like making able-bodied people the authority on wheelchair access, like making men the authority on women’s bodies, like making white people the authority on racism.

And so, ten years on, here I am again, writing about Tottenham, about class, about poverty and about ignorance, and only from a slightly different angle. I will write about these things more, not least because I’ve already started another work on these themes, but mostly because I will always need to. I don’t imagine that, during my lifetime, the explaining will ever stop. I don’t imagine that our societies will give up on punishing people for being poor in a world where it is so often simply too expensive to be alive. And I don’t imagine I will have any more patience for people who imagine it will all blow over.

I refuse to let you middle-class your way out of this.

I don’t have any solutions to these enormous and complex problems. I don’t have exhaustive lists of who exactly to blame or where precisely everything has gone wrong. But here’s what I believe: If we don’t talk about poverty, and if we don’t listen to those caught inside of it, it will never go away, and there will be infinitely more Tottenhams.

#Tottenham #Tottenham riots #Mark Duggan #poverty #London #England #writing #2011

16 notes · View notes

firepiplup · 3 years

Text

How do i say no to people

You know that analogy about people with adhd having spoons for energy management or whatever? My spoons are on backorder from like 2 months ago and more got on that list now

The problem is that all of the things I'm being asked to do are Very Important Things

I have to feed my diabetic cat. This in itself is not a problem, however she's needs to eat at a specific time (12 hour spacing) and my current sleeping situation along with work do not allow this to happen consistently. Currently trying for 7:30, we'll see how it goes

My apartment has bedbugs, and there's no way in fucking hell I'm sleeping on my living room floor until my scumlord landlord actually gets the guy to come back to spray because he did spray but I'm still seeing adults and i "need to give the spray time to work" it's been fucking 2 weeks i don't know how is supposed to work but i feel like after 2 weeks whatever spray you did isn't going to get any stronger i just want to sleep in my own bed it's been like this since fucking March

With that part explained, I'm sleeping at my mom's house on the other side of town. This in itself isn't much of a problem, however as "payment" i have to take care of her dog in the morning, to practice because she's going on a week long vacation in October and none of her dogs can just be taken care of like normal dogs. He needs to wear a diaper to leave the room while i pick up his shit and soiled weewee pad and mop the floor, give him some time to be out of his room, and then feed him his special food mix. The other dog has allergies and probably will get into something he shouldn't, then not use the bathroom outside even though he literally has a doggy door that has constant access to the backyard. Neither dog get along with each other, which is why they are separated. Thank fuck the cat is just normal, this is why i prefer them

Now with THAT explained, it's difficult to take care of my own cat on time in the morning. But as the legendary Billy Mays says: But wait, there's more!

I just got rehired at my job working in a local understaffed pizzeria. My friend, ego also works there, is on vacation (good for her, she deserves it, absolutely no negativity towards her) so i have acquired her hours. So i now work 6 days a week, kinda sorta clopen but i guess it's more of opelose. Or a combination of both? Idk. The point here is, I'm then dealing with essentially running half a restaurant alone 6 days a week, with it not being 7 purely because the owner himself ALSO has the same work schedule as far as I'm aware, and wanted to give himself a day off, and since we are so understaffed it would be impossible unless we literally closed. My tasks include answering the phone, washing dishes, making sandwiches, making dinners, folding pizza boxes, and cleaning the tables/equipment on that side of the restaurant. So essentially everything except making pizzas, cleaning the pizza area, mopping in general, and driving. We generally close at 9, 10 on Friday and Saturday. Guess who was explicitly rehired to close those days? Guess how that's going to work with me having to be home around 7:30 to take care of my own cat? I have no idea either. It's only for about 3 weeks, but my mom, whom i have not asked for any additional help with anything, won't feed the cat while i have work, even though there isn't a guarantee that i can leave on time to THEN RETURN to close, because again I'm the only one on that side of the building. I understand the fear of the bedbugs, so that's probably it, but it still fucking sucks because the kitchen is on the other side of the apartment from the bedroom and there is literally no reason to go there to feed her. But i get it

Did we get to where i can do my own ADLs? Of course not. My neighbor is in the hospital, and her husband is blind. This is a new development that was only discovered an hour before starting this post (about 3:30 am for me). She's ok, it's for mental health reasons, and that's her own business about that. Her husband being blind is not a new development however. And he needs help taking care of the pets, specifically the birds. Which is fine, they just also need to eat on their own schedule. 8am, around lunchtime, and 8pm. Guess who's still at work? One of the birds is special needs because her beak got injured and needs to be essentially spoon fed. Which the blind husband can't do at all. Fairly simple task, but just adding to my obligations that are Very Important because they involve making sure things don't starve to death while my neighbor is in Crisis

Ok let's see, that's 4 Very Important Tasks/Obligations, and only one was originally my own voluntary one. Still not at taking care of myself yet, but i have my shelter, i have my job ("part time" minimum wage, hurray. Part time because even with me being there 6 fucking days a week open to close it still isn't technically enough hours for the state to recognize it as full time), and I'm taking care of *counting* about 8 pets for the next week. Will unemployment give me my money that I've been claiming since March? No? Will they let me claim with my new working hours that makes that while process even harder? Technically but it'll take over an hour for it to process and it doesn't even do that in the end? Well fuck, guess i have to wait to get paid on the books in cash and beg for a hand written paystub and have my hours worked written down. Glad i earned $100 this week, i hope now that my hours have increased i get some more

Next on the list, appointments. Because I'm a dumbass who can't remember shit if it isn't consistently recurring, i overbooked myself for next week. My much needed therapy appointment with my therapist that I've only met once and is the replacement for my much better therapist that i actually had a relationship with is supposed to have a session with me on Tuesday. Will i remember to do it this time? Possibly since i actually remembered it's on Tuesday. Will she send me the reminder text with the zoom link? Probably not. Wednesday, my one day off, thank fuck for that, is the main problem with the scheduling. My med appointment is for 11:30. Cool, can do. Driving lesson at 12. Oh, that's a little close, but i can manage that probably. I only average 1 lesson per year and a half, so it's fine, it's "healthy" to be nervous about operating a death machine powered by explosions. Have to go to social services to pick up, or attempt to, a new food stamps card. They probably close at 5, and add a Non Driver, i need to rely on someone to take me. The sooner the better, but it can't be during the lesson. Don't forget to take care of the creatures before and during all of this.

Ok. Great. There's an hour before work. Time to shower, because it's so fucking hot I'll be sweating like crazy by the time i get around the corner to the pizzeria, with me literally getting out and dressed and then walking out the door. Glad i finally did still to take care of myself. Eating? I might have something i can heat up quickly while the cat eats and so i can take my own meds. Dishes? Those are going to have to wait, i hope the heat wave doesn't get too bad, but it's been like this for a while, still slowly chipping away at them. Sleep? Severe insomnia. I partially blame the bed, my mattress is so comfortable, i hope the bedbugs like it because i can't fucking use it right now. I'd be sleeping so fucking soundly if i were in my own bed, and yet here i am. Maybe i should take the Trazodone now. I just hope I'll wake up on time. Oh look I'm exhausted, can't afford to buy comparatively better prepared coffee from Dunkin, so i guess my shitty at home coffee is going to have to do. Black because i don't have any creamer or milk or lactose free milk in my house. Just the way i hate it. Gonna have to deal with that i guess, maybe I'll learn to like it

The coffee pot lives in my fridge now. I'm worried to put it with the other dishes because if it sits there, not being washed like everything else, then i won't even have the option of coffee. It's just water and ground up beans, I'm sure it's fine

Maybe i can find some kind of coping skill/hobby to help me through my limited me time. Let's see.... I like to crochet, and that helps me get through the dishes by letting me alternate between them and a row/round on one of my many started projects. What? It's in a giant garbage bag with a bedbug treatment stick because of the damn ass bedbugs? Can't open it for at least another week and even then there isn't a place to put the yarn safely? Well fuck. I found that really helpful with keeping me grounded. Umm, well looking online, i should *checks notes* buy new yarn in the meantime and keep it somewhere safe. Uh, well, i can't afford more yarn now and i have nowhere to put it. Videogames it is maybe? Oh fuck now I've hyper focused too long on pokemon, rhythm heaven, and whatever daily games i do, i think i have 5 of those of varying lengths of time spent on them

Did i remember to brush my teeth? No. Do i remember that i should and then when i get out of the shower so i forget to actually execute? Yes. Have i gone insane? Probably

How many spoons is a person supposed to have per day? It takes more for me just to get through the day in general. Why does everyone need me to do their Very Important Tasks? Why is there never anyone else? Can my neighbor just not buy more birds when she gets home from Crisis?

I just want to have good mental health, why is this so hard

#adhd #autistic adult #bedbugs #pizza #cats #birds #diabetes #anxiety #rant #exhaustion #dogs #work #spoons

3 notes · View notes

coshayphinelove · 4 years

Text

since people are pointedly only interacting with the post above and below my post about the protests in minneapolis, i will make something a little more targeted. some of y’all need it to affect you personally or fit your aesthetic, so here we go.

cosima went to the university of minnesota in season 1. that’s where she met delphine. cophine were students at the u of m. this, that happened last night?

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/truck-driver-minneapolis-protesters-bogdan-vechirko-interstate-35w/

yeah that’s the exit that they would’ve taken to get home if they had been downtown. which they probably were on that date to the wine bar in 1x07. you know, this one?

cophine canonically drove on this bridge.

i live in the area cosima most likely would have lived in based on the house they showed as her apartment in season 1. there’s a ton of renovated mansions around the u of m in dinkytown.

literally everything is boarded up around here because people are afraid of white supremacists coming into our city to cause damage and seed hate against peaceful protesters. i haven’t slept all week because i’m watching livestreams of police who are more likely to be domestic abusers than actually live in my city attack and brutalize my community. i risked covid yesterday to go clean up a park and the independent businesses have vandalized their own stores to beg for mercy with “kids live upstairs, please don’t.”

there’s a video game bar less than a mile from where George Floyd was murdered. every college kid goes there at least once. it feels so wrong to put these things in the same paragraph, but i would bet money that cosima and scott went there.

y’all love to talk about cosima’s dreads but forget that she’s white. white ob fans, if you’re willing to overlook her cultural appropriation, you owe at least $5 dollars to any of these charities. if that last sentence made you mad, that’s $10.

links and resources:

- unicorn riot is a non-profit media source that covers things like this as impartially as possible by doing their own on the ground coverage. you can donate to them here: https://unicornriot.ninja/donate/

- https://venmo.com/femmeempowermentproject is a group that provides funding for minneapolis activists, specifically medics and jail support

- the minnesota bail fund is just that. they bail protesters out. https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/donate they have had an overwhelming response and are asking that you donate to other places. i will be checking back in a few days to make sure they are still good, and you should too

- https://www.reclaimtheblock.org/ is an organization that lobbies for defunding the police and putting their extra money into community programs that are needed. (because i got shit on twitter i will expand that defunding is not abolishing. they want no /new/ cops and are trying to get rid of overpolicing. use your brain.) they have a petition to sign and also accept donations.

- https://www.blackvisionsmn.org/ the black visions collective is a community organization that works towards "Black people have autonomy and safety is community-led." they accept donations.

- https://www.migizi.org/support-us is a native run community center that was affected by the fires.

- http://welovelakestreet.com is a charity that is leading the effort to raise money and is organizing the restoration for when the protests are over.

- https://twitter.com/notsamiira/status/1266800128612016134 this is a thread of businesses owned by POC. this may overlap with lake street, but there are tons of other business not on lake that got hurt. i would look for lyndale businesses bc they’ve been hit pretty hard too but nobody is talking about them as a collective unit yet.

- this is a kid trying to get gas masks to front line protesters.

i’ve also been looking for gofundme’s on twitter of people who are doing food runs and providing water for protesters. it’s simple, it’s easy. there’s probably a ton more in your area because this shit’s gone international.

i got all my info from here https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#donate and clicking around. a lot of these organizations have social media pages that you can follow on twitter and facebook to stay active and informed even after this is over.

i’ve donated to all of these places because i have the means. i’m on unemployment bc of covid and i only have to buy groceries for one and pay rent. if you don’t please spread this around. my city is burning. a man is dead and his murderer and accomplices are walking free or being undercharged.

black lives matter and it’s about time minneapolis started fucking acting like it.

#black lives matter #justice for george floyd #orphan black #cophine #clone club

25 notes · View notes

lovewriting-5 · 4 years

Text

Rules:

*gif is not mine*

7. Bending Laws

9. Confessions

8. Christmas Spirit:

Charles drives through the small town of Beaver Creek. Chris and Daniel were going on and on about Power Bear and superheroes. There were a lot of little mom-and-pop shops. He pulls up to the parking lot of the Christmas Market and parks close to the front entrance. The three of us climb out of the front. Charles helps Chris out of the back, “Okay buddy, you’re ready?” Excitedly, he says “Yeaaahhh!”

Sean helps Daniel out of the back of the truck. Daniel begins speed walking to the market but Sean grabs his right arm. He says, surprised “Hey!” I tell Charles and Chris, “You guys go ahead and we’ll come back to meet you, okay?” Charles says “Sure.” Daniel tries to get away, “But - -“ Charles tells us “Don’t get lost!” They head into the market.

We face Daniel. Trying to make sure he gets it, Sean says “Dude, what the fuck are you doing? I can’t believe it...How many times do we have to keep going over the rules?” Annoyed, he says “Don’t show the power” - - I know...But Chris thinks he can do all this cool stuff. I wish he could...He reminds me of Noah. I just miss having friends...” Sean says “We know man...But you can’t lie to friends about something like this...He could get in trouble thinking he can make shit fly...Or he could get hurt.” Trying to understand, he asks “So you want me to tell him the truth?” I tell him “Well, we don’t want you to lie anymore...You don’t have to tell him everything, but...Don’t let him think he has magic powers, okay? You swear?” Daniel says “Okay, I swear.” Sean says “Deal. We’re counting on you, enano.” He asks “Can I go see Chris now?” I say “Yeah, let’s go.” Sean says “But don’t forget what we said.”

The three of us enter the market. The first thing Daniel says is “Woaw...So many trees! Ugh...They look like giant cocoons...Creepy...” He goes over to the table where the seller of the trees is. There was a can of fake snow, he says “Mmmm...I bet dad didn’t know about this...” Then notices a giant netting machine for the trees. He comes up with another question, “Is this what they wrap the trees with?” Sean says while chuckling “Yeah...We should put you in it!” Daniel says “Shut up! You guys coming?” I tell him “Don’t worry, we’ll be around!”

He heads over by Charles and Chris. As we get closer, we hear Chris ask “Can Daniel help, dad?” Charles says “Of course he can!” I smile at how fast they became friends. I was looking at some Christmas trees in a corner. Daniel and Chris come by and sit on the cinder blocks near by.

Chris says “Hey...You think you can come to our house for Christmas?” Unsure, Daniel says “Mmmm...I’ll have to ask grandma and grandpa...” Sounding hopeful, Chris says “Maybe we can do it all together? I’m sure dad would agree!” He says “It’d be awesome!” Changing the subject, Chris asks “So what’s your best score on Mustard Party 2?” He says “About 800, I think!” Shocked, Chris says “Whoah, cool! Mine’s a bit lower...” He mentions “I was about to beat it a few weeks ago, but...Sean’s phone ran out of battery...”

I walked away and checked out the rest of the market. I saw a blue snowman display. I checked out some of the other types of Christmas trees they had. Sean and Charles talked for a few minutes. Charles then went and talked to one of the customers.

Sean then came and joined me in the second part of the market. I was looking at one of the display tables when I feel his arm against mine. He says “Hey.” I look at him, “Hey.” To the vendor, we say “Hi.” The vendor says “Good morning! It’s nice to see new faces in this old town!” Politely, I tell him “Thanks! It’s a...super cool market you’ve got here...” He tells us “Small towns are the best for Christmas! Who are you guys staying with?”

Sean says “We’re just passing through, so, uh...At a...motel.” The vendor mentions “Well, I saw you speaking with Charles, so I thought...” I add “Oh! We’re not related...” Sean chimes in “My brother Daniel is friends with Chris...” The vendor tells us “Gotcha. I like his son...Funny little guy. Despite everything...Anyway, welcome to Beaver Creek. If you need anything, just holler.”

We look at the three different options for gifts on the table. Our choices are a sitting patriotic bear, a snowman and a wooden beaver. We talked for a few minutes about what Daniel would like. We decided on the snowman. Sean says “Can we get one of those...snowmen things?” The vendor says “Of course! They’re handmade by local kids!” “That is so cool!” I tell him him.

I give him the money, “Here you go...” He says “Thanks! Anything else?” Sean says “No, we’re good!” He tells us “Have a nice day then!” I say “You too. Thanks!”

We check out the table of wreaths next to the male vendor. Sean says to the woman, “Hi! This is a...nice collection!” The woman tells us “Why, thank you! I make them all myself!” I say “Whoah, that’s so cool! Must be a lot of work!” She says “Definitely too much for the money they get me, yes...” He asks “How come?” She explains “Well, people certainly don’t buy as much handmade Christmas decorations as they used to. The mall has ruined every single ship in town. Can’t do anything about it. And people seem surprised when unemployment is going through the roof.” I tell her “I know, it sucks...But we can’t do anything about it, right?” She says “I like to think there’s always a solution, however frustrating that thought can be. Anyway. You’ve got better things to do than listening to an old lady ranting about capitalism, right?” Sean says “It’s cool. Don’t worry.” The woman says “Well, thanks for hearing me out anyway. You guys have a nice day!”

I faintly hear strumming of a guitar. I look around and see a woman with purple hair. She has a small red paper plate sitting on the ground in front of her. I place a hand on Sean’s shoulder, say “Sean, I’m going to listen to the woman with the guitar. Do you want to come with me?” He says “Maybe in a few minutes.” I kiss him on the cheek and head over.

The purple haired woman starts strumming then begins It’s me, it’s me, you’ve come to take/My duality awakes/By midnight time I could not see,/If I were you or you were me/We play the game with skillful hands/And so I asked for your demands

At this point, Sean comes and stands next to me. I cross my right arm across my stomach. Let my left arm hang free and my right arm hanged on to my left elbow. I all of a sudden feel his fingers intertwine with mine. I look up at him and smile. He smiles back at me. The purple haired woman is still singing, Give me your love, give me your thumb/And he traced us back to where we begun/So the morning came/And swept the night away/As I was looking for/A way to disappear/Amongst the quiet things/And all these empty streets/I found a way, I found a way/To reappear... (Song lyrics credit goes to ‘I Found A Way’ by First Aid Kit)

The woman finishes. In a southern accent, she says “Wow, you made it all the way through...Weird...” I tell her “That was wonderful. You’re really good.” Nervously, Sean says “It was pretty cool.” She says “It’s cool that you both listened. People are usually too busy to care.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sean rub the back of this neck. His cheeks are a little red. He says “This is a small town. They’re not used to having street artists...And stuff...” The woman says “Yeah, they’re not used to many things...Especially seeing new faces on the street...” I tell her “Well...Thanks for the music, and...Good luck.” She says “See ya.”

With our fingers still intertwined, we walk around the market a little more to check out everything. As we were looking at one of the displays about donating, Sean says “I’m going to go talk to that woman with the guitar again.” Not thinking too much about it, I say “Okay.” He quickly kissed me on the cheek.

After five minutes, I decide to go join him. I get there just as the woman says “Me and my friends have been...Crashing here for the week...Nobody...gives a shit about us...I can tell you’re both not from around here.” I got the sense Sean was struggling with words. I chime in “No, no way...Just...Here for the holidays.” She says “Ah! You got family.” Sean finally says “My grandparents...” “Gotta love the grandparents!” She says.

To give Sean’s brain a break, I ask “What about you and...your friends? Road Trip?” Laughing, she says “Not really...We kinda hop from place to place, hunting for...little jobs...” Sean says “Must be a long ride.” The woman explains “That’s okay! We hop on trains.” As she draws out the word trains. She adds “Gives us time to rest.” All he could say was “Man...” I tell her “That sounds wicked.” Laughing, she says “You guys have no idea...It’s free and feels so fucking fun! Well unless you get caught or...fall, but...We’ve been lucky so far. That’s the best. Nobody tells us what to do. No coloration owns us...”

Probably thinking of all the different things he can draw, “And you get to see so many cool places...” The woman tells us “Exactly! Next stop is Humboldt County, California!” Jokingly, I say “Stoner break!” “Not even close! We actually got work over there!” She tells us.

Daniel comes by us, stands on the left side of Sean, begins “What are you guys doing? We picked a tree with Chris! It’s all crooked, like an old witch!” Noticing the purple haired woman, “Oh, hi...who are you? Your hair looks so cool! Is it a wig?” I look away and make an ‘eeee’ expression. The woman tells him while shaking her head, “Ah, well...What do you think?” He says “Mmmm...I don’t know...But it’s really cool! I’m Daniel! What’s your name?”

While giving him a high five and fist bump, she says “Hi, Daniel...I’m Cassidy. I dig your superhero outfit...” He tells her “I’m on a secret mission with my friend! It’s very dangerous!” Cassidy says going along with it, “I can tell! I hope you get your mission accomplished!”

They both turned toward us. Cassidy asks “And what’s your names?” I tell her “I’m (Y/N).” Sean says, nervously again “Oh, uh...Sean...I...I thought we told you.” She says “Now you did.”

A guy with brown dreads and a black dog comes walking up to Cassidy. It seems like they might either know each other or they don’t. The guy says “Sorry, went through some shit with the guys...How much you make? You ready?” Well, that answers my question. He turns to us, “Hello, pups...” Daniel noticing the dog, says “Oooo, is that your doggie? So cool!” While looking at the dog as it begins wagging its tail, the man says “Yeah, he’s been through a lot...Like most of us...So we adopted him. And he stinks! Yeah, you stink and you like, huh?”

The man bends down and pets the dog. Cassidy tells him, “He’s not the only one.” The man says “Have you checked your hair? I think it just twitched! You should keep your distances.” Sean says, confidently “Hey, never too careful! Who knows what may crawl out of there?” She says “Whoa-hoa, the boys join forces! You already perverting him, Finn!” I say “I think it looks cool.” Cassidy gives me a fist bump, says “See? She knows I’m clean...You’re the nasty one...”

Cassidy picks up her backpack and begins packing up her things. Finn says “Yeah, you always for those suburban folks...” Sarcastically, she says “Are you kidding? You wanna talk about your scoreboard, hotshot?” I say putting my hands up in defeat, “Hey, no worries...” “Come on, let’s bail!” He tells her. Cassidy tells us “It was nice meeting you, (Y/N), Sean and...” she bows at Daniel, “...Daniel.”

They walk away. Finn turns back around, says “Stay outta trouble, kids!” Daniel says, waving “Goodbye!” Cassidy says “Hope we see you on the rails someday!” Sean says “Yeah. See you around.” He says “That doggie was so cute...I miss Mushroom.” I tell him “I miss her, too.”

Cassidy and Finn are about to leave when they are stopped by a man who seems like a security guard. The man says, authoritative “Hey, excuse me! Dogs have to be on a leash around here. Too many strays...” Sarcastically, Cassidy says “Sorry, dude. We don’t do leashes.” The man says “Well, the city does. An unleashed dog is liable to a fine, so...” She asks, shocked “You’re gonna fine our dog? Well, that’s not very nice!” The man tells them “Loitering is illegal, too. And you don’t live here, right? Right?” “Calm down, sweetie. We’re allowed to visit the Christmas Market. Our dog’s not gonna eat you, look at him!” Finn tells him. The dog starts to wag his tail.

The man warns them “You better watch your mouth. You punks are always causing trouble...This is a nice town, okay?” Cassidy says loud enough for him to hear, “Jeez...Someone needs to get laid...” Finn says “He’s out of pills...” I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my snicker. The man says “That’s it, I’m calling the cops!” Cassidy says, sarcastically “Oh god, he’s gonna call the cops on us, Finn!” He says “Chill out, we’re leaving this shithole, anyway. You don’t even have a Santa, for Christ’s sake!” Cassidy says one last thing to the man, “Merry Christmas!”

The two exit the market as the man crosses his arms, “Fucking parasites...” Daniel asks “Why did they fight? I don’t get why he yelled like that...Should we do something about it?” Sean gives me a mischievous look. It took a couple seconds but then I got what he is getting at.

He says “See the snow on that booth?” Daniel asks “Yeah? What about it?” I say “Maybe this guy needs a shower...” We walk in front of him to give him some cover. We leave just enough space in between for him. I add “You know. To cool him down...” Laughing, Daniel says “You’re right! Hold on...” We cross our arms and pretend to look at the view. Sean says “Careful...Careful...” Daniel lifts his hand, laughs “This will teach him!” We hear the snow start to crunch a little and then it falling off the roof. Sean and I turn our heads a little to get a better look. We see the snow fall off of the top of the booth and right on the guy. The guy begins shaking the snow off himself in anger and discomfort. I tell him “Nice...” The three of us start to laugh. The man says “Come on!” We immediately stop laughing to hide what happened.

Sean sits down at one of the picnic tables. He pulls out his sketchbook and begins to sketch. I sit down next to him and try to see what he’s drawing. He noticed me and gives me a small smile. I scoot a little closer to get a better look.

Just as he finished up, Chris comes over. Chris asks him “What are you drawing? Whoah, it’s so cool! Are you like, a professional?” Laughing, Sean says “Nah. More like the opposite.” He says “You could draw comic books! The awesome adventures of...Captain Spirit and Super Wolf!” I say “That sounds really cool! I would totally read that.” Sean says “Pretty rad for a Hollywood name. Yeah...I’ll think about it!” He ask “Hey, can you add something funny to your drawing?” Sean asks “Funny? Like what?” Chris says “I don’t know! Something cool!”

Sean takes a few seconds to decide then he adds cartoon aliens and a spaceship. Chris says “I hope I can draw like you one day...” He says “I’m sure you will, man.” Chris walks away. I tell him “That’s really cool! It was sweet what you did for him.” He puts his sketchbook away as we get up from the picnic table.

We head to the front of the market and see Charles and Chris waiting. He asks “Hey, you guys ready to go?” I say “Yeah, all done!” Charles says “Cool, hop in!” Daniel and Chris climb into the back hatch. Charles climbs into the driver seat. Sean and I get back into the passenger seat. The two of them are giggling back there. Charles asks “Are you having too much fun back there?” Chris says muffle by the window, “Yes!” He says “That’s what I thought...” I look out the window and smile. He pulls out of the market. Heads back in the direction of their house and the Reynolds’.

#Sean Diaz x reader #Sean Diaz imagines #Life is Strange 2 fanfiction #Sean Diaz #Life is Strange 2 #LiS2 #Life is Strange #LiS #Life is Strange fanfiction #Life is Strange x reader #Life is Strange 2 x reader

19 notes · View notes

intothestarkerverse · 5 years

Text

Paper Hearts

The Starker-Office AU the world needs.

Tony Stark is a paper salesman who hates his job but is secretly in love with the beautiful receptionist. A glimpse into their unorthodox courtship and happily ever after.

Tony Stark hated his job.

Selling paper was one of the most boring professions he could think of, and it had a very obvious expiration date that drew ever closer the more digitized the world became. At best, he thought, he had another few years before he had to hit the unemployment line and look for another job he despised. Nothing left to do but collect his paychecks until then, really.

His boss was an idiot.

Scott Lang was no where near as funny as he thought he was. His jokes caused Tony actual, physical pain. The way the guy was a lapdog for Hope from corporate, that was even worse. Didn’t help that for some reason Scott thought he and Tony were best friends. The indignities he put up with for this job were not worth the pay check he took home. Not. At. All.

The guy across from his desk was a killjoy. You’d think Steve Rogers had some amazingly important job with how dedicated he was to it. First one to arrive. Last one to leave. He was a puny little, sanctimonious nerd that Tony loved to play practical jokes on…which was really only one of two things that made the job bearable. The second? The second was Peter.

Peter fucking Parker.

The receptionist.

Light of his life.

His reason for waking up in the morning.

The only damn reason he hadn’t left this fucking job in pursuit of something that didn’t make him contemplate using his letter opener to carve a giant hole into the middle of his chest.

Peter was young and beautiful and sweet and he sat directly in Tony’s line of view. He caught himself staring at the kid way more often than he should. He would day dream about running his fingers through those fluffy chestnut curls, tugging on the strands in the throes of passion. He pictured what Peter’s lips would look like wrapped around more than just the straw of his water bottle. He committed every centimeter of Peter’s face to his memory, knew every piece of clothing in the kid’s wardrobe…enough that he recognized when Peter had treated himself to a new sweater or pair of skinny jeans. Tony stared because it was all he was allowed to do, and it was the only thing that got him through the day. Peter caught him, too, but either the kid didn’t realize that Tony was head over heels in love with him…or he didn’t care.

Tony really hoped it was the former, but it didn’t matter really because Peter had a fiance, Quentin Beck, some handsome asshole from the warehouse who had been promising Peter a ‘happily ever after’ that the kid had yet to realize was really a ‘never gonna happen’. Quentin wasn’t ready to grow up, settle down, be a fucking man, and Tony had caught him flirting with people who weren’t Peter enough times to know he was a piece of shit. Quentin Beck didn’t know what he had, but Tony did. He hated that fucking guy, and the feeling was clearly mutual.

Someday. Someday, Tony was going to sweep Peter off his feet, steal him away from the asshat and show the kid what a happily ever after should look like.

Someday.

If he ever worked up the nerve.

Until then…

***

Tony leaned against the reception desk, drumming his fingers on the Formica counter and waiting for Peter to finish his call. Peter glanced up at him through a curtain of eyelashes, biting back a grin and holding a finger to his lips as he quickly scrawled a message on a notepad for Scott.

“Mhm, yeah, no, I’ll totally have him call you back…Yeah…Soon, for sure…Uh huh…Yep, I have here that it’s important so he’ll definitely get back to you…Yep…Cool, okay. Bye.” He placed the phone back in it’s cradle carefully and turned his attention to Tony, resting his head in one hand and blushing intensely under the other man’s gaze. “That was corporate. You could have gotten me into trouble.”

“I’d never get you into trouble, Pete. I’d sooner die.”

“This job’s not worth dying over, Mr. Stark.”

“You might be…”

Peter choked out an embarrassed giggle. “Stop it! You’re the worst. Did you just come over here to tease me or did you need help with the copier again? For someone with half a degree in computers, you really suck with copiers, you know that?”

Tony shrugged, so what if that was one of his many excuses to spend a little time with Peter during the day. He could hardly be faulted for that. “Got you a present. Wanted to make sure you got to enjoy it properly.”

“Oh yeah, what did you get me?” Peter looked more than a little skeptical, and in all honesty, he probably had a right to be.

“Wait until Rogers gets back from his coffee break and then enjoy the show, Kid.”

“Oh my god, what did you do?”

Tony chuckled, stealing a piece of candy from the bowl Peter filled every week. “I may have hacked his computer last night…sent him a very official looking email from the US Army inquiring about a very special kind of paper needed for a top secret mission and included a referral from one of his best clients.”

“You didn’t!”

“He’s always acting like his job is a matter of life and death, let’s give the geek a thrill, huh?”

“Mr. Stark, that’s so mean…”

“I could abort the mission if you really think…”

“I mean it would be a shame to waste all that hard work…”

***

“No.”

“Seriously, Steve, I haven’t even gotten to ask…”

“I know, but whatever it is you want, Tony, it can’t be good. So, no. My answer is no.”

Tony frowned, hanging his head in frustration for several seconds. “I know you got Peter in the office Secret Santa thing…”

“How do you know that? Did you just conveniently skip over the ‘secret’ part?”

Tony was trying really hard to be nice here. Steve wasn’t making it easy. “I asked everyone else. Paid them. Did them favors. Tracked down the lucky bastard who was gifting Peter…and Fate hates me, so here we are. Look, Rogers, I know we’re not friends…”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine. Mine. It’s clearly mine. I accept the blame. I do. It’s just…I have something planned for Pete and I need to be his Secret Santa. I will do literally anything. Name your price.”

“I can’t be bought, Tony. Peter has a fiance, or did you forget that? Whatever you want from him, it can’t be good.”

Tony groaned, hitting his forehead against the top of his desk. “I know Peter has a fiance, Rogers. Believe me, no one is more aware of Quentin’s existence than I am. The guy’s a jerk…a bigger jerk than me, and that’s really saying something. You know it’s true. He’s a piece of shit and Peter deserves better. The guy is going to give him some generic piece of crap for Christmas, no thought at all. You know it. Peter’s a good kid. He deserves…he deserves a lot more than that shithole. Let me give him something nice. I’m not going to break up his relationship. I’m not going to lead him down the path of temptation. I just want to give him something nice and make him smile without him feeling like he needs to do something for me, okay? Rogers…I’m begging you.”

Steve stared at him for several long minutes before he sighed and nodded. “Fine. Yeah. Okay.”

“Bless you, Steve Rogers. Consider this our armistice. War over.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

***

Tony had never wanted to hug anyone as badly as he wanted to hug Peter in that moment.

The kid looked defeated.

He was seated at a little card table towards the back of the comic book shop with several stacks of his own self-published comic in little piles all around him.

No one was stopping to look at them. To talk to him. To acknowledge his existence at all.

His eyes were glassy. The kid was literally minutes away from crying and he just couldn’t let that happen.

“Just your luck that you’d have your debut on a rainy day, Parker.”

Peter jumped, scrubbing a hand over his cheeks and putting on a brave face as he looked up at Tony with a paradoxical mixture of relief and fear. “Tony! You…you came.”

“Course I came. Wouldn’t miss this for the world. But seriously, you know rainy days are terrible for business, right? It’s a proven fact. Why…I’ve never seen so few people in here before. Gotta be the weather.”

“Yeah…no, yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” Peter looked like he didn’t quite believe Tony, but he was also apparently eager for an excuse to explain his lackluster turn out. Had anyone else from the office even come? Ass holes. All of them. And where the fuck was Quentin?

“So, let’s see…” Tony reached out for one of the books, carefully flipping through the pages and perusing the content with a little humming noise. “Hey, now, do you take inspiration from people you know?”

Peter was blushing. “Maybe…”

“No maybe about it, Peter, you cannot tell me this handsome bastard isn’t based off me.” He flipped the book around, tapping at an image of a roguishly handsome superhero in crimson and gold armor. “You know I’m a raging narcissist, right? I was going to buy a book anyway, but now I have to buy the whole series cause I’m one of the stars. You in here, too?”

Peter nodded slowly, his blush darkening. “Yeah…but I won’t tell you who. You’ll have to figure that out…”

“I do love a challenge.” Tony closed the book and reached out to add one from every pile to the one in his hands. “So, how much?”

“Um…they’re ten a piece but…”

“But obviously that’s much too low so I’ll give you a hundred for the set of five.”

“Tony, no…”

“Fine. A hundred and fifty it is. You’re a tough negotiator, Pete.”

“Tony!” The smile on Peter’s face was worth every fucking penny. And who needed to eat, anyway?

***

“Mr. Stark! You promised that the goatee was not because of my comics.”

Peter was standing at his desk with both hands over his mouth. His face was as brilliantly red as the home made Halloween costume Tony had donned for work that day…the costume he had based entirely off of Peter’s comic and the character he just knew was based on him. Had to be. And dammit, if he was right…if he was right, than Peter had even made himself Tony’s fucking love interest…and wasn’t that just the most interesting thing he’d ever read in his whole damn life?

“So, I lied. It’s not my fault. You’re such a damn good artist that I took one look at my comic book self with that awesome facial hair and said, ‘Fuck, Tony, why did you never realize that you’d be even more devastatingly attractive if you just had an impeccably groomed goatee?’ The world has you to thank for it, Pete, and I’m definitely keeping it because it’s been a hit.”

Peter’s hands dropped from his face to his sides. He was chewing on his bottom lip, looking pensive. “Who…I didn’t know you were dating anybody Mr. Stark. I’m glad…they like it. I guess…”

Tony didn’t bother to correct him. Not yet. A little jealousy might do the kid some good, let him know how much Tony wanted to choke the fucking life out of Quentin every time that piece of shit showed his face.

***

Peter was wearing a new soft blue sweater over a button down shirt and Tony was trying very hard not to swoon over how fucking adorable he looked. He was playing with his gum, winding it around his finger before popping it into his mouth to begin again. He had his phone concealed in his lap so no one could see him playing on social media while he was supposed to be working. That was probably why he didn’t hear Tony approach until the man was standing directly in front of him, leaning against the reception desk and looking at Peter with what Tony recognized was something very close to the heart-eye emoji. God, this kid.

He really couldn’t take it anymore.

He had to make a move.

Be brave.

Be bold.

Be the fucking hero in that kid’s comic.

“What are you doing tonight, Pete?”

Peter jumped a little, looking up at Tony with a little flush of surprise. “Tonight? I don’t know. Quentin’s got poker at Drax’s, so probably just going to lay in bed and catch up on Netflix. Why?”

Tony smirked, dropping something on the desk in front of him.

“Oh my god, how did you get this? It’s not even supposed to be released for another two weeks…” Peter’s excitement was quelled by the sudden realization, “Is this a bootleg?”

Tony nodded. He was never going to admit to how much he’d spent for a bootleg copy of something he cared absolutely nothing about because in the end…it was going to be completely worth it. “Come over to my place tonight. We can break the law together.”

“You think if the FBI raids your place while we’re in the middle of it that we could at least be cellmates, Mr. Stark?”

“Don’t worry, Pete, I’ll protect you in the prison yard. No one would dare put a hand on you.”

“I’ve always thought you’d make a great prison husband.” The witty banter ground to a halt with Peter’s last quip, his light brown eyes flaring wide. His mouth had runaway without his better judgment, but Tony wasn’t quite ready to let it go yet.

“Oh, I’d make a great husband, prison or not.” Tony held Peter’s gaze for a second longer than was probably comfortable for both of them, the kid’s face was red as a cherry tomato when they were interrupted by the sound of an exasperated sigh from behind them.

“Tony…could you just grow up already? Some of us are actually trying to work…”

Peter giggled into his hand, leaning to the side to look around Tony at Steve Rogers’ desk. “I thought you and Mr. Rogers had finally ended the Civil War, what did you do this time?” He was careful to keep his tone soft enough that it didn’t carry.

“Hm?” Tony was still distracted by thoughts of Peter as his prison wife, but managed to pull himself out of it to look back over his shoulder and shrug. “I super glued everything to his desk last night.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Peter was under his desk now, hugging his sides and laughing himself breathless.

***

It was far from the first time he and Peter had spent time together outside of work. They were friendly, in fact. Quentin didn’t share any of Peter’s interests, and that left plenty of things for Tony to exploit. Movies Quentin wouldn’t be caught dead seeing. Video game releases. Comic conventions. Hell, Tony had even gone to a few games of D&D with Peter because he would take literally any excuse to spend time with that kid.

Now, they were cuddled up on Tony’s couch in his apartment with enough snack food to weather the apocalypse and a bootleg that Peter was dying to see. Though, for something Peter was dying to see, he didn’t seem as enthusiastic about watching it as he had earlier that day.

“Pete? You okay? Something happen after work?” He’d been fine when they’d said their goodbyes that day.

Peter ran a hand through his curls and let out a long, shaky breath. “I think Quentin might be cheating on me. I don’t have proof but…Drax didn’t know anything about a poker game tonight and it’s just, it’s little things, you know? I found this little church I really liked for the wedding and I mentioned it to him, that we could maybe set a date…but he brushed me off. MJ…you know from customer service? She says I’m an idiot, that he’s never going to marry me and now I’m afraid she’s right…do think she’s right, Tony?”

Tony reached out, drawing the younger man close and inhaling the scent of his shampoo as he tucked Peter against his chest. “You’re not an idiot, Peter. You’re way better than that piece of shit in the warehouse deserves. You’re beautiful and smart and funny and talented, and if you were mine…we’d have fucking eloped the second you said you’d marry me.”

Peter pulled back with a watery smile, “Yeah?”

“Mhm. They increased the limit on my credit card last month. Enough for two tickets to Vegas, a week long stay in a crappy casino and a quickie wedding chapel. I’d lock that shit down before you had a second to realize that you could do better than me, too.”

“Better than you?” Peter sounded as if that idea was more insane than eloping to Vegas minutes after a marriage proposal. “Tony, there isn’t anyone better than you.”

“If you believed that, you wouldn’t be with that piece of shit, Quentin Beck.”

Now, Peter just looked confused. “In what universe did I ever have a choice between you and Quentin?”

“This one.”

Peter’s head slowly canted to one side, brow furrowing and eyes narrowing. “No…”

“Oh yes, Pete.” Never in his wildest dreams had ever thought that Peter thought Tony was out of his league. Was the kid blind? Did he not own a mirror? Did he not know how brilliant and funny and talented… “Oh yes..” Those last two words were repeated a hair’s breadth from Peter’s lips as Tony leaned forward to bridge the distance between them.

It was everything Tony had ever thought it would be and so much more. Peter’s lips were soft, his whimpers were music to Tony’s ears. Tony let himself bury his fingers in those chestnut curls and inhale the scent of him, revel in the taste of him, live in that moment as if it was the only one he was ever going to get.

The kiss went on until neither one of them could breath, until they were forced to pull back with heaving chests and swollen lips. Peter stared at Tony for several seconds before he threw off the blanket and walked out of the room.

What.

What the fuck.

Tony was dumbfounded. Was Peter not into it? Had he just been shot down? Was Peter not even going to talk to him…

No.

Peter was back.

With his laptop?

Tony frowned, watching as Peter dropped the computer in his lap followed by something small and golden. Glancing up, Tony caught sight of Peter’s now empty ring finger.

“Put your money where your mouth is, Stark.”

Tony stared. “What…”

“Two tickets. Vegas. ASAP.”

“Wait…” He couldn’t be serious.

“No, you said you wouldn’t make me wait. I already Snapped Quentin. We’re broken up. I’m single…but I don’t want to be. So buy me those tickets to Vegas and a ring…when we get there.”

Tony slowly opened the laptop, stealing glances at Peter ever few seconds as he booted it and pulled up a travel site. “You’re not…this isn’t a joke, right?”

“Not a joke. You’re not the only one who’s been pining, Tony Stark. Why do you think Quentin hated you so much? He knew I was super into you…hell, Tony, I made you my lover in my comics…You’ve been my unattainable crush since I started my job. You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Most supportive. We have fun together. We have a lot in common. We just…”

“Yeah.” Tony was smiling now, not even second guessing himself as he typed in his credit card numbers. “I don’t know if we can get a week off work…”

“Four day weekend is good enough for now. I’ll call Mr. Lang and let him know we won’t be in. I’ll have to tell him why…”

“God help us.”

***

Four days later when Tony and Peter returned to work in the same car, they arrived to find an impromptu wedding shower waiting for them. Quentin had quit. Left all of Peter’s stuff in the warehouse in a pile in the middle of one of the docking bays. But whatever, the less they had to see of that prick the better. Scott seemed happier about their elopement than they were, and he’d gone to great lengths to print up t-shirts proclaiming that everyone in the office ‘shipped Starker’. Even Rogers was wearing one.

Tony pretended to hate it.

Really he fucking loved it.

Maybe his job wasn’t the absolute worst after all…

#starker

257 notes · View notes

lonelyhearteds-a · 4 years

Text

hi .

okay , ive literally been sitting on this for actual months now because i realize there are more important things going on in the world right now , but im at my own personal breaking point and i’ve realized that i need a space to get everything off my chest and this is as good as it gets since i can’t afford therapy so ,, here goes nothing .

tl;dr. tw : drugs , mentions of suicide , overall negativity

so , we’re gonna ignore january and february issues because honestly .... i don’t recognize those months as canon . anyways , i’ve been off of tumblr since the pandemic started in america in march . i lost my job , and i’ve had to use my personal time in order to keep getting something in my bank account , but i was making that + unemployment for a few weeks . everything was fine , truthfully and utterly i was making enough just off of unemployment despite the fact it took 3 weeks to even be processed . then everything hit the fan and it flew everywhere . my mom relapsed in mid-april and she relapsed hard , but me pretending it’s just her illnesses went about my business and decided to ignore it until it exploded in my face . i’m not going into too much detail about it , but with everything she’s done since april we’ve now got a really broken and fractured relationship . it’s taken me nearly fourteen years to realize the amount of sheer trauma she’s put me through ; mentally , physically and emotionally . then , we were almost evicted because she didn’t pay rent for two months - so i had to use my entire stimulus check just to catch up on rent and the mortgage payments . then , i went back to work in may just to process shipping orders . again , was fine for the most part , however i wasn’t making as much and what i had saved my mom found a way to guilt me to spend it . this went on all of may , living paycheck to paycheck . june week one came along and my mom overdosed . this was one of the worst experiences of my life ; it was re-opening week ( apparently clothing is essential during a pandemic ) , my mom was acting like she had no common sense ( destroying the house , not feeing the animals , not taking care of herself , LOSING MY CAT , locking the dogs in the car in 100 degree heat , calling me names i dont even want to repeat .. amongst other situations ), and i didn’t eat . for a week . i was sick to my stomach with stress and exhaustion , living off of literally 5 hours of sleep between friday and thursday when i finally got help from my family after begging them to help me send her to a psych ward for two weeks . she called me every single day and we’d argue every single day . when she was released , it was as if nothing’s changed . she said she was gonna change , but she hasn’t . she walks around with a rain cloud above her head and if i don’t give her money , she guilts me into doing it . so on so fourth . we argue almost everyday about something , whether it’s money or my attitude somehow making her life worse . i asked her one day if she’s ever going to be happy and she flat out told me no . there’s so much more going on with her but if i posted it all i might as well write a book . i’ve never wanted to kill myself more than i do everyday so far this month .

now , july , i’ve recognized i can’t keep living like this . my company has filed for bankruptcy and is closing more than 1200 stores and we don’t know which ones are closing and which ones are remaining opened yet , but if my store closes i have no money to fall back on until i find a new job . i have no money for groceries or pet food , and i don’t have enough to pay all of the bills . my mom over drafted one of my accounts and now i have to pay that back with my next paycheck which means i’m losing $110 automatically when i get paid next .

i’m honestly just exhausted ? like . i’m twenty-three years old and i literally have no will to live because of this woman and the shit she’s put me through . i was not planning on making it to my birthday this year and i was definitely not planning on making it to august . i don’t know . to be frank , i don’t have the energy to care about anything anymore and my anxiety keeps telling my some of my closest friends are over me when there’s no reason for me to even believe that . i’m seeing them all next year at different times and i know they’re excited to see me but i sat here the other day just questioning if that’s even real . i don’t have any friends in the town i live in ; i don’t go out and do things because of corona and if i do , my mom forces herself along . if i buy myself something i have to buy her something or it turns into an argument and an all around guilt trip .

i’m trying so hard to save enough so i can move out , but .. it’s almost impossible at this point . and i don’t know what to do . i work full time ; there is no reason i should have to consider getting another part time job just to survive . i shouldn’t have had to to parent my parent and sacrifice so much of my life . i shouldn’t be this mentally fucked up , but here i am , once again , crying over spilled tea .

anyways , if you read all the way through , i don’t know when i’m returning to tumblr , but when i do i am still going to be moving blogs . nonetheless , i’m on d*scord ( ♡ kezrah fan club president ♡#9812 ) and i’ve been doing more rp things on there if anyone wants to talk or do things again ( im always game for a welcomed distraction , even if it takes me a minute to reply ) ; i still , for the most part , have the same muses that are listed on my page . love u all loads nd loads .

#tldr #long post tw #overall negativity tw #idk what else to tag

5 notes · View notes

analemma · 5 years

Text

long and personal post/rant

In January 2018 I decided to quit my well-paying job bc it was making me miserable. I was depressed, super anxious, hated going to work everyday, crying constantly, distracted, etc. I got a new job at my same org that paid half as much for half the time, and my mental health issues pretty much cleared up overnight. I had no idea how much my emotionally abusive boss had been weighing on me. It felt like a literal 180. I planned on using my extra time for volunteer work/antiracist organizing work, and going to astrology school. The pay cut was substantial and hard, but I moved out of my own place and into a house with other folks to try to help with that. My rent went down by about half, to $490.

In April, the couple I was living with moved out. Myself and my other housemate were unable to find another couple to take the big room, or a single person willing to pay $700-$800 for it, so I moved into the big room, continued to pay $490, and my partner stayed with me half time and contributed $200, so together we paid $690.

In July, my car insurance went up $200 per month bc back when I was in job hell and crying all the time and working 50+ hours per week, I got into an accident that was my fault.

In August I realized I was struggling to make ends meet, had been spending more than I was making each month, and had pretty much eaten up my checking account, and maxed out a credit card. And this extra $200 per month was going to exacerbate that, so I got a couple side hustles to try to make up for it. These have been inconsistent, although helpful. I now usually work between 30-40 hours per week, in addition to my astrology school and the work I’m doing to get my own astrology business set up.

In September my partner of 4 years unexpectedly broke up with me. It has been a really, really hard time. I talked to my therapist and she agreed to see me for half her usual rate so I could start seeing her every week instead of twice a month. My partner had set up an automatic payment through the end of the year to keep paying me the $200 that he was contributing in rent, so I had that for a few months, but that ended in December.

Last month my roommates agreed to split the cost of the house 3 ways, so that my rent didn’t go up $200 a month—but that just means that they’re paying $30 a month more each, so now I’m paying $633 instead of the $490 I was paying.

So, to recap: I wasn’t making ends meet for the first 9 months of 2018 but I had a buffer. That buffer is now gone, my expenses have gone up about $400/month, and the extra money I’m bringing in is inconsistent and doesn’t cover my additional new costs.

On Tuesday my therapist said she can’t continue to subsidize me and that I need to re-evaluate what I’m paying her. She suggested that I skip lattes sometimes or buy cheaper groceries. My food budget is $100 per month.

Which brings me to today. Today, one of my roommates (a white cis straight dude) told me he couldn’t afford to continue “doing me a favor” and pay the extra $30 a month because he has to pay $25 a month for his band’s practice space, and he can’t afford to pay more than the rent he originally agreed to. This man has not had a job since he moved in last June. He has turned down jobs because they interfere with his band practices. He has been living off unemployment and food stamps, which he knew would run out this month. He told me I’m an asshole for bringing this up and that it has nothing to do with him paying rent, and that we are paying rent based on sizes of rooms and it’s not fair for him to pay the same as me when his room is smaller. I don’t give a shit about which room I’m in, I’ve repeatedly offered to switch with him but he doesn’t want to. I told him I might have to move out because I can’t afford extra rent and he said basically “oh well.”

So anyway, now I’m in tears because it looks like I should probably move out and/or get a new job, and the idea of either of those things is so incredibly stressful that I like actually can’t comprehend it. I’m leaving for a (grant-funded, not something I paid for) ten day wilderness trip on February 9th and have a million things to do to prepare, so it’s not realistic for me to move before then. I have so much extra shit that I would need to get rid of to make moving feasible. The last 2 moves I had, I relied on my partner to help me so much, and the idea of trying to do this without him sounds so overwhelming. And overall I’m just so fucking sad because none of this would be happening if the person I’m in love with hadn’t left me alone, and I miss him so much. He made my life feel so easy and bright even when it was hard and scary. He was a lighthouse to turn to when I was going through the storms of a life with mental illness. I just feel like i don’t know how to get by without him anymore. I’ve lost my way and don’t know how to find a path forward.

Ummmm anyway if you read this could you just say one nice thing? I mostly wrote this out for myself but I don’t want to feel like I’m just screaming into the void.

#personal #me

3 notes · View notes

scottielambchop · 5 years

Text

Tite Five Vol. 1

Here's the deal: Unemployment really sucks.

But it's important to keep "flexing my writing muscle." So, I decided to take the blog format I had with my old company and take it here. Which is rad because I can now write all the f-swears I want. But even better, I can rename this stupid fucking thing. So without further ado, I present to you my Tite Five.

Arby’s Subscription Box

Well, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I may not be writing blogs for an ad agency anymore, but that doesn't fuckin' mean I won't talk about fast food.

For those who don’t know me (and now that I’m writing on my own blog, I don’t know why the fuck you wouldn’t), I have sort of backed myself into a corner with Arby's. It all started innocently enough. I wrote a Facebook post asking if anyone wanted to go on a romantic date to Arby’s. Seemed like a funny-enough thing to say. But then I doubled down and asked the same question again a few weeks later. Then again. And again. Soon enough, I became the “Arby’s guy.” Which, to be honest, isn’t the worst thing to be known for. Especially since Arby’s is pretty good and their Pizza Slider is one of the most underrated QSR food items on the market.

Alright, now that I got that little nugget of useless bullshit out of the way, let’s get to this subscription box. For the past couple of years, Arby’s has been fucking killing it in the advertising game. Their hilarious Ving Rhames-voiced copy spots and subsequent transition to more visual stuff with H. Jon Benjamin, their delightfully nerdy paper-craft social posts, and now, their subscription box. That’s right, you fuckin’ heard (or read) me correctly, Arby’s now has a subscription box.

In early January, Arby’s tweeted out they would be sending a subscription box called Arby's of the Month. All you had to do was sign up for $25, and you would get six mystery boxes of seasonal gear from everyone’s favorite roast beef provider. Now, I’m sure you’re wondering, “Who the hell would want that?” Well, let me tell you, a lot of people the hell would want that. It sold out in less than an hour.

Minneapolis' Fallon (my dream agency) has done amazing work with Arby's. They've taken your grandparents’ favorite fast food joint and turned it into something for everyone. By simply getting weird with everything they do, the younger generations have latched on. Honestly, who the fuck would think about sending a subscription box full of roast beef swag, and how the fuck did it work so well? The answer is Fallon.

P.S. If anyone from Fallon is reading this, my portfolio is scottielantgen.com. Hire me, please.

Re-Watching South Park

One of the most beautiful things about unemployment in the digital age is the ability to hunt for jobs across the country while sitting on your couch and streaming a seemingly endless supply of shows. And that’s exactly what the fuck I’ve been doing with South Park.

Now before I begin, I just need to say that, yes, the show’s liberal use of the “f-word,” “r-word,” and countless racial stereotypes DO NOT hold up well to today’s standards. And honestly, I’m not going to defend it. It’s not my place.

Problematic dialogue aside, what I love about rewatching South Park from almost the very beginning (just skip the first three seasons. You're not missing much) is how it’s a perfect current event/pop culture time capsule. I seriously forgot about Elián González, Terri Schiavo, how the popularity of Paris Hilton made everyone fucking terrible for a while, and just the Passion of the Christ in general. But thanks to South Park, those headlines came rushing back in vivid detail.

South Park still holds up as some of the best satire ever created. It’s quick, funny, and often offensive. And I’m pretty sure that’s what Trey Parker and Matt Stone wanted it to be.

Also, Butters and Randy Marsh are two of my favorite fictional characters.

Skittles Commercial: The Broadway Musical

The “Big Game” (who has the money, amirite?) is tomorrow, and it’s like a goddamn advertising cotillion. It’s the day where the entire country gathers around a TV to eat a variety of sauced meats, drink one of three different beers, and watch the newest batch of commercials from some of the biggest brands in the country. I am told there’s also a football game.

This is the day companies spend millions of dollars for 30 seconds of air time. It’s absurd. But it’s the most viewed event of the entire year, so companies feel the need to get their air time. Except for Skittles. They've been doing something a little different.

Last year, Skittles was fed up with the high price of “Big Game” ad placement, and decided to ditch that mess and do their own thing. So, they did what any other rational company who wanted to advertise to millions of viewers would do. They made an ad for just one person (Check it out. It rules). This little stunt got them billions of media impressions, which, in a lot of ways, is just as good as paid placement.

Where does Skittles go after the major success of last year’s stunt? Broadway of course. During halftime, Skittles will present a one-time performance of Skittles Commercial: The Broadway Musical. Lead by Six Feet Under’s own Michael C. Hall (fuck Dexter), this 30-minute musical is slated to be very meta. Their website states, “Through song and dance, the show takes an absurdly self-reflective look at consumerism and the ever-increasing pervasiveness of brand advertising in our lives.”

It’s fucking brilliant, and I can’t wait to hear how it turns out.

Companies Taking a Stand

Other than writing as many “fucks” and “shits” as I want, one of the coolest things about writing this blog untied from any agency has to be freely expressing whatever dumb-fucking-shit opinion I have. Don’t get me wrong, my old company gave me a lot of freedom, but I always felt it best to stray away from any “controversial” or “political” opinions. Now I’m off the leash and ready to spread my leftist propaganda like a mother fucking virus!

There is a great divide in our country. I know it’s always been there, but it seems way worse ever since the 2016 campaign trail. Regardless, with this growing separation between liberals and conservatives/left and right/cool dudes and white people, companies are also taking sides. And I think it’s a really fucking smart idea.

As you’ve probably seen (and possibly burnt your own shoes about), Nike was one of the first major companies to take a stand for what they believed in. Hiring “controversial” athlete, Colin Kaepernick, to be the face of their newest campaign was a really bold move, but it paid off big time.

Yes, they faced a backlash. Fox News was all up their ass about “DiSrEsPeCtInG tHe FlAg,” and Twitter users shared a litany of videos of people destroying the products they already bought and paid for. But overall, the campaign was killer and showed that the company was willing to put themselves at risk for equality and doing what is right—though I’m sure they’re heartbroken your shitty uncle won’t buy their socks ever again.

Gillette was the next big company to pick a side. They took a stance on the truly controversial topic of “not being a shitty dude.” I really don’t know where the backlash for this came from, but apparently, men don’t like being told that it’s wrong to catcall and sexually assault women. For a bunch of “manly-men,” they’re really crying like little babies over a minute-long video. The ad is still pretty new, but it already seems to be resonating well with younger male audiences, but not so much with boomers. Weird, right?

And lastly, Patagonia just announced that they will donate all 10 million dollars they saved on tax cuts to environmental groups. I don’t know how people will find a way to be upset by this, but I don’t doubt for a single second that someone will. The world is a nightmare.

Listen, I know there are always going to counter-arguments.

“Oh, they’re just exploiting a current issue to make money.”

“Oh, you may think they’re doing the right thing, but their internal business model is totally fucked.”

“Oh, not all men.”

“Oh, that money could have gone to hard workers and not a stupid tree or whatever.”

It really doesn’t matter. This is advertising. They are spreading a message. You may not need a razor at this moment, but that spot can also serve as a reminder to be a better man. You may prefer a different brand of athletic wear, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be able to see how much a person has sacrificed to support a cause. You may not be a white Instagrammer, but now you know that some companies are doing honorable things. These companies aren't just selling products, they’re also selling ideals.

Gratitude

As I’ve alluded to throughout this post, I recently lost my job. I wanted to make light of it a little, but I also just wanted to get some things off my chest. The truth of the matter is this: I am forever grateful for the opportunity I was given and the people I befriended along the way. I was able to work with and learn from some of the most talented people I have ever met. I took a huge risk moving to a smaller, one-agency town to take this job—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I am forever thankful for this time in my life.

One of my biggest New Year’s resolutions was to express more gratitude. As I said before, the country is divided. I can’t seem to hop on any social media channel without seeing some kind of bullshit-fueled fight going on. Everyone seems to be focusing on the negative and no one really cares about the positive (I fully understand the irony of this sentence). But this could change by expressing more gratitude for the people in your life and amazing opportunities.

Listen, I could be really pissed about the current state of the world. And honestly, I am. But I’m trying to express more positivity. Everyone else can complain about our turd of a president 24 hours a day. Why not tell the important people in your life why you’re thankful to have them? It’s a really fucking simple thing to do—and it could possibly start a chain reaction.

Listen, I’m not going to tell you to not focus on the bad parts of your job or whatever because that shit is so much more easily said than done. And it also goes on a job-by-job basis (I couldn’t really think of a positive in working in corporate finance or some soul-sucking shit like that). But I will say this, I’m thankful I was able to work a job where I could see a bright side. I learned a lot and I’m looking forward to the next steps in my career.

I know it seems tough to remain positive in such dark times. But, fuck, this is your life. You’ve only got one of em. Don’t spend it worrying or complaining all the time. Find the positive and try and improve upon that… or don’t. It’s your fuckin’ life. Do whatever you want.

Well, guys, that’s it for my very first Tite Five (but also not, ya know?). I hope this was as enthralling as Chris made it out to be. I love you all. I’ll probably see you next week with another post of sorts. Take care and don’t drink and drive after the “Big Game.”

1 note · View note

eldritchsurveys · 6 years

Text

o83.

[[ Random Survey Questions // By @x-hallie-x ]] 1. When you wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep, what kinds of things are you likely to do? How often do you find you have trouble sleeping? >> I read when that happens. I don’t have trouble sleeping all that often, but sometimes I’ll have trouble getting to sleep (especially if sleep paralysis is getting in the way) or staying asleep. They’re not really chronic issues, though, and are pretty recent developments.

2. What was the last lengthy packet you filled out? >> I can’t remember the last time I had to fill out something like this. Maybe when I first visited Heartside Clinic?

3. Are you a patient person? What is one way you have a lot of patience? What about not very much patience at all? >> I have a pretty high capacity for patience, just in general. Specific situations that might cause me to be impatient are things like waiting to go somewhere cool or dealing with a situation that I have no investment in but am forced to deal with anyway for whatever reason.

4. At what time during the day do you tend to feel your best? What about the worst? >> I don’t know. I feel pretty much the same no matter the time of day, unless I’m sleepy.

5. What was the last thing you did that you wish you could take back or do differently? >> I guess I could wish I hadn’t had Sparrow take me to Urgent Care when the situation magically cleared itself up on the way there, but the walk back home wasn’t too bad and no lasting harm was done, so... like, whatever.

6. Are there any blogs that you check first thing in the morning or on a regular basis? In general, what kinds of blogs do you like to follow? >> I get notifications for updates from some blogs, so I’ll just check those blogs when I do phone-related activities in the morning, and sometimes throughout the day depending on what else I’m doing. I follow way too many blogs to have a type, lol.

7. How frequently do you stay overnight somewhere that isn’t your own home? What things do you miss about home when you’re away? Do you tend to get homesick easily? >> I stay overnight at other places so infrequently that I actually have a difficult time falling asleep anywhere that isn’t home or the Wayland house (for the first night, particularly; after that, it evens out). The Wayland house gets off easy I guess because I stayed there for the first month when I moved out here. I usually just miss the freedom of being in my own apartment and knowing where everything is and having all my stuff within reach. But I wouldn’t say I get homesick per se, like I love to be other places; I sometimes get the “I want to go home” feeling when I’m overloaded, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I actually want to go home, ya dig.

8. Do you tend to eat more in the beginning of the day or at night? Do you have a tendency to snack when you’re bored? If so, what kinds of snacks do you normally go for? >> I’m not sure. It’s summer right now, so I just eat less in general, which makes my eating habits more nebulous and harder to track. I snack sometimes when I need something else to do with my hands/face, but sometimes I just chew gum for that.

9. If you have any dietary restrictions, do you ever miss foods you can’t have? If not, what’s something you haven’t had for a long time that you wish you could eat again? >> I would love to eat Louisiana food again. One day.

10. What was the best thing to happen to you today? What about the worst? >> I won a $15 Wendy’s gift card at Resident Appreciation Day (Sparrow won $25 to Papa John’s, which we’re going to use later today). The worst thing is, I guess, that I didn’t win the $25 AMC Theaters card, because I really wanted that. :p

11. Is there something you still can’t do even though you’re an adult or might be expected to do this thing? >> I don’t do well on phone calls and I avoid them as much as possible. I am also pretty unemployable.

12. When was the last time you changed your opinion on a relatively big or serious issue? Overall, do you feel your opinions on things have changed a lot since you were younger or do you still feel the same about many things? What is one opinion you never see yourself changing? >> I don’t remember the last time that happened. But yeah, my opinions on things have definitely changed -- or, expanded might be a better word -- since I was younger... as an especially mercurial individual, I’d be kind of weirded out if they hadn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever change my opinion on religion, though -- I will always be fascinated by it and supportive of it in general, and I will also remain unsupportive of specific religious practices that divide and belittle people.

13. If you have a mental illness, in what ways has it made your life different from those around you? What challenges have you faced, what have you overcome, and what have you had to miss out on? >> I think of myself as neurodivergent, despite the fact that I haven’t been tested for that -- I could be wrong, of course, but then that’d just make all these experiences I’ve had in life even weirder than they already are. Neurodivergence is actually the Occam’s Razor conclusion here. So that would mean my brain developed differently than is common, and my perceptions and philosophies and understanding of the world around me are equally divergent from what is common. I process things differently, I experience emotions differently, I socialise differently, and so on. It’s a pretty pervasive thing. My social development was pretty stunted until adulthood (when I was able to do something about it). I had to learn the intricacies of communication, the differences in the way I respond to things and the ways other people do, how to navigate the world without sticking out like a sore thumb, how to recognise danger, how to avoid social traps, all that shit -- and I guess I picked both a great and terrible place to learn all that stuff in, in NYC, but at least I managed. I’ve missed out on childhood because I feel like I really wasn’t fully present for it, trapped in my own head as I was; I’ve missed out on half of high school because I was usually hospitalised (I’d developed a moderate-to-severe cutting habit due to trauma); I fell off the socially-accepted life path somewhere in high school and never managed to get back on (once the train leaves the station, catching up only gets more and more difficult as time goes on). None of this really bothers me by now, because if there’s one thing a born wanderer will always do, it’s carve a place for itself no matter where it is. I have blazed my own trail. It is mine alone, and I am glad for it -- because no other path would have suited me.

14. Again, if you have MH issues, do you ever wonder what your life would’ve been like without them? If you could snap your fingers and make your illness disappear, would you? Or would something stop you from doing this, and if so, what? >> I mean, I guess I’ve wondered that for funsies, but I can’t imagine being anyone but myself, so. (And the thing about neurodivergence is that it’s literally built into the fabric of who a person is -- if my brain had developed “normally”, I wouldn’t be the same person at all. And I can’t imagine myself as anyone else, so the imagining falls apart.) I do not want to snap my fingers and make a completely different person appear in my place. I do love who I am, it’s just difficult being who I am sometimes. I can handle a little difficulty. I’ve done so this far, after all.

15. Are you good at getting along with other people even if they have vastly different views from yours? When was the last time you had to interact with someone like this, and how did it go? >> Yeah, I can usually get along with someone if I really feel like it, no matter what they think -- with some limits, obviously (there’s no way I’m ever going to get along with a neo-Nazi, let’s be serious). But here’s the thing: most of the time, I don’t care enough to try in the first place, lmao. So it doesn’t matter.

16. What is one way you show another person you care about them? What are things that make you feel cared about in return? >> If I give someone my time and attention, I usually care about them in some fashion. I really don’t just go giving that out, and I don’t feel bad about withholding it if I don’t care about someone enough. Like, what are they going to do, be mean to me? Big deal, I’d have to care for that to matter. So if I care, I at least want to pay attention to them and listen to what they have to say and try to understand where they’re coming from even if I don’t fully grok it. It’s the effort, I guess -- I put effort in. As a pretty apathetic person, that means a lot coming from me, even if other people see it as unremarkable. I feel cared about when people pay attention to me and remember things I’ve said and respect my boundaries and appreciate my creations and encourage me and stuff.

17. When was the last time you congratulated someone? Were you happy for them, indifferent, jealous? >> I don’t remember. I was probably indifferent emotion-wise, but like... idk, if I say “congratulations” then I at least want you to feel good about whatever it is you did or got. I don’t have to feel anything for that to be true.

18. Are you typically happy for other peoples’ successes? Was there ever a time you just couldn’t bring yourself to be, no matter what? >> I’m typically emotionally indifferent to other people’s successes, but I still want them to succeed. Like, I wouldn’t discourage them or downplay their success, I’m just not going to jump around the room or whatever-the-fuck. It’s okay, I don’t expect anyone to do it to me, either (unless they want to, obviously). And yeah, there are plenty of times when envy or dislike or whatever prevented me from even going through the motions of happiness on their behalf. It be’s like that sometimes.

19. What was the last milestone you reached in your life (graduating, buying a car, starting a family, etc)? What milestone are you going for next, if any? >> The last milestone of that nature I reached was co-signing the lease for this apartment, I guess? I don’t know. What even is a milestone. I want my next milestone to be moving out of this place, tbh. But I think the next one is probably marriage, unless we really do move in March when our lease is up again.

20. Do you feel as though you’ve lived your life according to what society typically expects, or is your life more unconventional? >> No, my life has been quite unconventional. This is the most conventional it’s been since the beginning, and that’s why I’m often so weird about it. Sometimes, to a wild thing, safety can feel like a cage. It’s a brain glitch, don’t mind it.

21. Do you enjoy getting comments or messages? How likely are you to leave comments or messages for other people? >> Sure, I like to socialise. I don’t know how likely I am to do it -- just whenever the desire strikes, I guess. I don’t think too hard about it.

22. How would you describe your handwriting? Is it what comes naturally, or have you ever purposely worked to improve or stylize your handwriting in a particular way? Do you know anyone who has particularly interesting or unusual handwriting? >> My handwriting used to be damn good, especially seeing as I was raised by someone with impeccable handwriting and calligraphy skills, but it’s degraded as I started to buy my own computers and shit. Now I’m almost exclusively a typer, and I haven’t written anything by hand that wasn’t an address on an envelope or a short form for some government thing in a long time. But my handwriting is still better than Sparrow’s, lmao, so she always has me write things out. I could always get better at it again, because it’s not difficult; I just have to care enough. I’m still considering it.

23. When are you most likely to scream (either out of fright, anger, or whatever)? Do you scream or yell often? When was the last time someone screamed at you (or in your presence)? >> I don’t scream, really. I don’t even like yelling, I just... I have one of those voices, lmao -- it’s quiet usually, but when I get passionate or upset about something, it really projects. I’d probably be great on a stage. The last time I recall being screamed at was over the holidays, at the Wayland house. Not an event I really feel like rehashing, either.

24. Do you ever ignore other people? How do you tend to react to being ignored by someone? >> Sure, I've done that. Just not frequently. I usually ignore people when they’re either trying to piss me off (like a troll on tumblr) or trying to manipulate me into responding by being antagonistic. I can’t remember the last time I was legitimately ignored by someone, so I don’t know how I’d react. I’d probably just go on about my business, like... what’s the point of doing anything else, really? Maybe whine to Can Calah about it, or something.

25. When was the last time you felt like your feelings werent being respected? Do you think you do a good job of respecting the feelings of others? >> The last time I felt like that was when I was trying to set boundaries for myself in my last relationship, and it felt like I shouldn’t even want what I wanted (listen, don’t ask, by now I don’t even remember why it felt that way), but like, that’s ancient history now. (I mean, it is to me, anyway. The only reason I thought about it now is because it’s the answer to the question, but other than now I haven’t thought about it any time recently.) I don’t know if I do a good job of respecting the feelings of others; I just do my best and hope it’s good enough. Isn’t that all any of us do?

26. If you have a pet, what is one personality quirk that they have? If you don’t have pets, was there ever a time when you had one or wanted one? >> I’ve had pets briefly, but really, I don’t... even want one at this point. They’re more trouble than I have patience for.

27. What would you say is your STRONGEST emotion? Maybe not the most frequent, but the most intense? And what emotion do you feel most weakly, even if you might feel it more often? >> I don’t know what my strongest or weakest emotion is. I’m really not emotionally connected, in case that isn’t already clear, lmao.

28. When was the last time you were up to see the sunrise? Do you tend to pay attention to things like that (sunrises, sunsets, rainstorms, etc) or do you not really care about that sort of thing? >> I was awake at the time of sunrise this morning, but I wasn’t watching it or anything. I do pay attention to the weather, but I won’t necessarily drop what I’m already doing to pay attention to it. Unless it’s a thunderstorm. I love those.

29. What was the last thing you bought for someone else? What about the last thing someone bought for you? And the last thing you bought yourself? >> The last thing I bought for someone else was... I think a book for Rez’s birthday? That was months ago, but I don’t think I’ve bought anything else? Unless it was something for Sparrow, but like, we live in the same household, we just kinda spend our money that way by default. The last thing someone bought for me (that wasn’t Sparrow) was the mindfulness book that Hallie bought me last month. The last thing I bought myself was a Gatorade (lmao not a hot one! a blue FROSTI BOI) and a pack of bubble gum.

30. How do you feel about the day you’ve been having so far? Or if it’s just started, what kinds of things do you plan to do today? >> My day was all right. A good old Saturday.

#surveys #random survey #survey

11 notes · View notes

bluewatsons · 6 years

Text

Atosa Araxia Abrahamian, Money for Nothing, New Republic (August 29, 2018)

Many jobs are pointless. Others are being automated away. In the future, who will still work for a paycheck?

Some years ago, I had a colleague who would frequently complain that he didn’t have enough to do. He’d mention how much free time he had to our team, ask for more tasks from our boss, and bring it up at after-work drinks. He was right, of course, about the situation: Although we were hardly idle, even the most productive among us couldn’t claim to be toiling for eight (or even five, sometimes three) full hours a day. My colleague, who’d come out of a difficult bout of unemployment, simply could not believe that this justified his salary. It took him a long time to start playing along: checking Twitter, posting on Facebook, reading the paper, and texting friends while fulfilling his professional obligations to the fullest of his abilities.

The idea of being paid to do nothing is difficult to adjust to in a society that places a high value on work. Yet this idea has lately gained serious attention amid projections that the progress of globalization and technology will lead to a “jobless” future. The underlying worry goes something like this: If machines do the work for us, wage labor will disappear, so workers won’t have money to buy things. If people can’t or don’t buy things, no one will be able to sell things, either, which means less commerce, a withering private sector, and even fewer jobs. Our value system based on the sanctity of toil will be exposed as hollow; we won’t be able to speak about workers as a class at all, let alone discuss “the labor market” as we now know it. This will require not just economic adjustments but moral and political ones, too.

One obvious solution would be to separate income from labor altogether, a possibility that two recent books tackle from radically different angles. Give People Money, by journalist Annie Lowrey, offers a measured, centrist endorsement of Universal Basic Income—the idea that governments should give everyone a certain amount of cash each month, no questions asked. The anthropologist David Graeber posits that the link between salaried positions and real work has long been tenuous in any case, since many highly paid jobs serve little purpose at all. In Bullshit Jobs, he tries to make sense of the peculiar yet all-too-common situations in which people are hired, after much fanfare, to do a job, then find themselves not doing much—or worse, performing a task so utterly pointless that they might as well not be doing it.

In the absence of a truly useful job, most people, Graeber considers, would be better off living on “free” money. Lowrey views UBI less as a way to eliminate useless work than a way to compensate invisible forms of labor, such as caring for a relative or doing housework, or to bolster underpaid workers. Cash transfers, she proposes, could also stimulate entrepreneurship and creativity. Either way, the idea of paying people just for being alive is now one that both a radical scholar and a reasonable Beltway journalist can take seriously—though neither author fully reckons with the social reordering that would arise from a world organized around love and leisure, not labor.

Graeber’s book expands on his viral 2013 essay “On the Phenomenon of Bullshit Jobs,” in which he took aim at “employment that is so completely pointless, unnecessary, or pernicious that even the employee cannot justify its existence even though, as part of the conditions of employment, the employee feels obliged to pretend that this is not the case.” Eric, who worked as an “interface administrator” at a design firm, found himself in such a job. His responsibility was to make sure the company’s intranet system worked properly, which sounded useful enough. But, it turned out, he was set up to fail. None of the employees used the system because they were all convinced it was monitoring them. It had been designed with the worst, buggiest software. A confluence of office politics and poor management had led the company to hire Eric, who had no experience working with computers. He was to oversee a system that was never supposed to work in the first place.

Eric ended up doing little. He kept irregular hours and explained to the odd employee how to upload a file or find an email address. He started drinking one, then two, beers at lunch; reading novels at his desk; learning French; and taking trips for nonexistent “business meetings.” If this sounds idyllic—a salary with no work and boozy lunches!—Eric didn’t experience it that way. Instead, he acutely felt “how profoundly upsetting it was to live in a state of utter purposelessness.” Graeber suggest two reasons for Eric’s despondency. One concerns social class: The first person in his family to go to college, Eric wasn’t expecting the white-collar world to be such, well, bullshit. Another reason is existential: When faced with it, “there was simply no way he could construe his job as serving any sort of purpose.

By Graeber’s metric, my old gig wasn’t quite bullshit, mainly because I rather enjoyed it and found it meaningful. The term is subjective: If someone thinks a job is pointless, it probably is. There are also many repetitive, grueling, or boring jobs that do not qualify as bullshit because they meet an essential need: If a cleaner or bus driver doesn’t report for work, it hurts other people. (These Graeber terms “shit” jobs.) His method for identifying bullshit is, by his own account, unscientific. He draws from a pool of anecdotes to produce an anatomy of bullshit workers, who fall into five categories: “flunkies,” “goons,” “duct-tapers,” “box tickers,” and “taskmasters.”“Flunkies” are the modern equivalent of feudal minions who make bosses feel big, important, and strong. Whereas they were once doormen and concierges, they now tend to be receptionists who do little besides answer cold calls and refill the candy bowl, or personal assistants who drop off their boss’s dry cleaning and smile when he walks through the door. “Goons” essentially bully people into buying things they don’t need: Marketing managers and PR specialists do this, as do telemarketers. “Duct-tapers” are employed to fix things that aren’t or shouldn’t be broken or do tasks that could easily be automated—data entry, copying and pasting, photocopying, and so on. “Box tickers” help companies comply with regulation (or offload responsibility for complying), and finally “taskmasters,” or middle managers, spread more BS by assigning it to others.

“The creation of a BS job,” one manager tells Graeber, “often involves creating a whole universe of BS narrative that documents the purpose and functions of the position as well as the qualifications required to successfully perform the job, while corresponding to the [prescribed] format and special bureaucratese.” She explains that her organization’s bureaucracy created odd incentives to retain employees whose work was inadequate. It was easier for her to hire someone in a new position than to fire and replace the incompetent employee. This, she notes, helped BS jobs proliferate.

Graeber attempts to quantify just how much—and after some back-of-the envelope calculations, he wagers that 37 to 40 percent of all office jobs are “bullshit.” He further contends that about 50 percent of the work done in a nonpointless workplace is also bullshit, since even useful jobs contain elements of nonsense: the pretending to be busy, the arbitrary hours, the not being able to leave before five. “Bullshitization” is even infecting the most nonbullshit professions, with teachers overloaded with administrative duties that didn’t use to exist and doctors forced to deal with paperwork and insurance firms that probably should be abolished.

There’s no sure way to verify Graeber’s estimates, but for white-collar workers, they seem basically right. Work backward: How much activity on social media takes place during work hours? How many doctor’s appointments, errands, and online purchases occur between nine and five? In other words, how many of us could stand to work half as much as we currently do without any significant consequences? And yet we insist over and over that we are terribly, endlessly busy.

This state of affairs seems to defy not just human reason, but also basic capitalist logic: Wouldn’t a profit-seeking organization tend to cull unnecessary compensated labor rather than encourage it? Graeber proposes that there is an explicitly irrational reason why such jobs exist—a system he calls “managerial feudalism,” wherein employers keep adding layers and layers of management so that everyone can feel their job is important or at least justified. (They’re “mentoring” young people. They’re helping others develop careers!) The bigger the staff, the more important the company and its leaders feel, regardless of purpose or productivity.

There might be something refreshing about the fact that capitalism has not yet gained full control over its means and ends, and that there are millions of people sitting around getting paid to do nothing all day. Graeber doesn’t buy it. On the contrary: He considers bullshit jobs to be a profound form of psychological violence, a scourge that’s fueling resentment, anomie, depression, and apathy. Patrick, an employee of a student union convenience store, mostly agrees with this judgment. He didn’t mind the work itself; what he resented was being assigned inane busywork, like rearranging things, after he’d finished his tasks six times over. “The very, very worst thing about the job was that it gave you so much time to think,” he tells Graeber in an email:

So I just thought so much about how bullshit my job was, how it could be done by a machine, how much I couldn’t wait for full communism, and just endlessly theorized the alternatives to a system where millions of human beings have to do that kind of work for their whole lives in order to survive.

Of course, some people can escape by focusing on creative pursuits during the hours they are idle. And it helps if everyone in said job acknowledges, if tacitly, that they serve no purpose by being there. But that’s hard, too, Graeber argues, because of the structure and nature of the modern workplace: the rules, the conventions, “the ritual of humiliation that allows the supervisor to show who’s boss in the most literal sense.”

The existence of bullshit jobs has, further, led to the devaluation of vital occupations. Workers in essential, nonbullshit jobs are constantly told by moralizing politicians that their work is noble and that they ought to be grateful for the often low pay they receive. Even though the middle managers and box tickers of the world can console themselves with the thought that they are “generating wealth” and “adding jobs” by virtue of their “economic output,” they secretly envy the real, human sense of purpose that useful workers—teachers, garbage collectors, care workers—share, Graeber writes, and end up vilifying them out of “moral envy.” This impulse plays out politically: Nurses, teachers, and bus drivers, for example, are constantly portrayed as “greedy” when they bargain for better union contracts, or they’re said to be “stealing” from the state when they make overtime wages. When voters in bullshit jobs hear these words over a campaign season, it can swing legislative bodies to the right.

Would it be better if those workers stuck in bullshit jobs could simply walk away? Graeber isn’t one for policy recommendations, but he does float UBI as a potential salve to our sad professional predicaments. A UBI would “unlatch work from livelihood entirely”: If, guaranteed enough money to live on, people could choose between bullshit or nothing, he wagers that they’d choose nothing and do something more useful and interesting with their time instead.

In Give People Money, Annie Lowrey is less concerned with dissatisfied professionals than with some of the world’s poorest (including those in the United States), who in addition to already being overworked and underpaid—if they are employed at all—will likely face the harshest economic consequences if or when menial tasks are automated. These workers are already up against weakened unions, corporations dead set on extracting maximum value from their workforces by scaling back benefits and slashing wages, the rising costs of education and health care, and other trends that wind up concentrating wealth at the very top. When the robots come, as Lowrey believes they will, there’s little that governments, companies, or other organizations can do to make them go away. The best shot for these people, she comes to believe, is unconditional money.

Lowrey makes a convincing moral argument for UBI, insisting that “every person is deserving of participation in the economy, freedom of choice, and a life without deprivation—and that our government can and should choose to provide these things.” She also points out to great effect the destructive moralizing that Americans, at least, attach to money. “We believe there is a moral difference between taking a home mortgage interest deduction and receiving a Section 8 voucher,” she writes, in a refreshing moment of indignation. “We judge, marginalize, and shame the poor for their poverty.” Gaining support for UBI would mean persuading people to reject those assumptions; convincing a majority to see, as Graeber and Lowrey both urge, that commanding a high salary doesn’t automatically make you a good person.

A further challenge for advocates of UBI today is the lack of definitive, long-term surveys “proving” the mechanism’s efficacy: There have been no truly universal cash transfers within one country for an extended period of time, and there are thus no narratives to follow or macroeconomic conclusions to draw. Thanks to increased interest in the phenomenon, though, there are more and more smaller-scale studies, and Lowrey visits one of them in Kenya with GiveDirectly, a charity that essentially hands out cash through mobile payments in poor places. There she meets a man named Fredrick Omondi Auma, who “had been in rough shape when GiveDirectly knocked on his door: impoverished, drinking, living in a mud hut with a thatched roof. His wife had left him,” she writes. “But with the manna-from-heaven money, he had patched up his life and, as an economist might put it, made the jump from labor to capital.”

More money, Lowrey reports, turns the villagers into good capitalists who invest their savings in education and supplies, start businesses, and help grow the local economy. Her observations recall the breathless and somewhat naïve boosterism that surrounded microcredit programs in the late 1990s and early 2000s. She even meets three sister-wives who plan to pool their funds and create a small bank to lend to women. In the United States, too, she finds clear-cut potential for success. In separate chapters, she illustrates the promise of cash transfers for the American poor with more clarity and purpose, visiting a family with disabled children and speaking to women whose jobs just don’t pay enough for them to get by. Simple cash could help teenagers finish school instead of working to support their families; it could adequately compensate women who stay home to care for sick loved ones; it could spare the elderly or disabled from the bureaucratic hell of waiting in line to plead for meager welfare benefits.

Ending poverty around the world ought to be a priority, and Lowrey makes a strong case that unconditional cash transfers can help do that. But in the wrong hands, a UBI can do more harm than good. It can serve as a pretext to further decimate social programs and put more blame still on the individual for any mishaps or shortcomings. As Lowrey notes, libertarians love the idea that UBI could replace the welfare state, shrinking big government—a move that could render the whole program ineffective, since it’s hard to imagine a UBI stretching to cover market-rate housing and exorbitant private health care. Meanwhile, cash payments can also reinforce social and racial divisions by throwing money at a problem without addressing its causes. Giving the individual residents of an over-policed neighborhood cash transfers won’t, for instance, make them any less susceptible to unreasonable searches or violence.

That’s why it matters who supports UBI and, more significantly, whose policies it gets attached to. Many of the people funding UBI research or advocating for cash transfers—Facebook co-founder Chris Hughes and Y Combinator’s Sam Altman, to name just two—are in fact among those who do best from the current distribution of wealth. A UBI would, after all, benefit corporations: For any company that depends on people having money to buy their products—whether groceries, prescription drugs, or driverless cars—the idea of a jobless, incomeless population presents a threat to its bottom line. Free money lets consumers stay consumers; it maintains the current system. And that’s without getting into the possibility that unemployment and poverty might add up to riots, class war, and mass unrest. In that situation, the CEOs would be the first to go.

Both Graeber and Lowrey struggle with the fact that—for all work’s miseries and for all the promise of UBI—work is deeply ingrained in American society. While many of us might hate our individual jobs, most of us love the idea of a job. Our world is constructed around the idea that a job is not just a paycheck: It’s a status symbol and a form of social inclusion. This, of course, supports the creation of bullshit jobs, which prop up the socioeconomic status quo. Now that a jobless (or less job-full) future may be within reach, the question is how to reimagine our relationship with work.

Lowrey appreciates the extent to which people identify with their work—even if it’s bullshit or shit (in her parlance, “crummy”) work. Having reported extensively on the psychological toll that unemployment can take, she insists that the culture (or is it cult?) of work is most likely here to stay. It might not be the healthiest approach—she dislikes moralizing around the virtue of work almost as much as Graeber does—but she realizes it’s something we have to build in to our short- and medium-term expectations because “the American faith in hard work and the American cult of self-reliance exist and persist, seen in our veneration of everyone from Franklin to Frederick Douglass to Oprah Winfrey.”

For his part, Graeber insists that there’s no value in working for the sake of just working. That often gives the impression that anyone who does want to work for work’s sake must be a bit of a sucker and that the compulsion to work is a manifestation of false consciousness or, worse, stupidity. He thus glosses over the strongly felt benefits, be they professional, social, or psychological, that many people get from their jobs. If Graeber’s unscientific assertions about bullshit jobs feel vital, urgent, and intuitively true, his dismissals of work’s inherent value—not moral, but social—feel incomplete.

With a compulsion to work so deep-rooted, UBI is a solution that will only go so far, even if implemented in a way that truly does alter lives for the better. Giving people money will not make us less moralistic about labor: People used to working will not necessarily know what to do with themselves or with their time. (I certainly wouldn’t.) Such measures represent only a fraction of the socioeconomic overhaul that will be needed to deal—if not now, then for future generations—with this twin utopia-dystopia: a world with less work and less money.

A solution that neither Lowrey nor Graeber spends much time dwelling on is perhaps the obvious: to split the difference. In a 1932 essay titled “In Praise of Idleness,” the philosopher Bertrand Russell noted that he had come to think of work not as something morally necessary, but as a means to enhance pleasures in the rest of life (after all, would you want to attend a dinner party you could never leave?). While acknowledging that he is a product of a Protestant work ethic and thus a compulsive worker, Russell suggests halving the workday to four hours, which would be enough for a person to secure “the necessities and elementary comforts of life,” leaving the rest of his time to do whatever he wanted.

“There will be happiness and joy of life, instead of frayed nerves, weariness, and dyspepsia,” Russell goes on. “The work exacted will be enough to make leisure delightful, but not enough to produce exhaustion.”

#work #capitalism #the way we live now #bullshit jobs #ubi #universal basic income #modernity #automation #labor #identity #david graeber

3 notes · View notes

iamashippingtrashbin · 6 years

Text

Happy Birthday

(A/N): I had inspiration to make this during my birthday, due to my curiousity getting the better of me and wondering how a birthday would go for Jerry. Oh, also, this takes place during season two, so Jerry lives with the family and they’re still a-holes to him. I am really glad that Jerry and Beth are happy now though. It’s sweet. I’m open to constructive criticism and would like to know how I did with writing the characters. I’m not sure I did good with Rick and his stutter, so let me know how I did and what I can do to improve!

Word Count: 2027

Summary: It’s Jerry’s birthday.

Today was special, or it was supposed to be, at least. Why was today supposed to be special, exactly? Because it was Jerry’s birthday. Of course, you probably knew that already because of the summary, but that’s besides the point. Now, since it’s Jerry’s birthday, where does that leave him? At his home with his loving family who put together a small surprise party for him? Sadly, no, that was not where Jerry was.

He was standing in a small grocery store near his home, his eyes fixated on the cupcakes that were neatly stacked on one of the many small square tables near the bakery section of the store. Jerry, after some debate, finally decided to get a small case of cupcakes, gingerly picking them up and making his way to the check out. It was still relatively early in the day, which would explain the stores lack of activity. Plus, it was still a weekday. It was a little nice, only hearing the quiet song coming from the intercom, complete with scattered footsteps and a few rolling shopping carts. Jerry paused his walk to the check out, colorful candles catching the corner of his eye. He turned to examine them, gnawing lightly on his bottom lip. Should he really buy candles? I mean, it was just him, and it’s not like there was any other birthday coming up. Now that he thought about it, he could also get himself a small container of ice cream.

“Really, Jerry? Cupcakes and ice cream? And candles? Are you actually celebrating your unemployment?” a very familiar voice spoke up in the back of Jerry’s mind. He swallowed thickly, shifting his gaze down to the cupcakes. Maybe he should just put them back. Leave the store and go back home. Pretend that nothing special is happening and continue on with his life. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. No! It was his birthday! His special day! He at least deserved something.

“For what? You don’t work at all. Why should you get anything for your birthday? It’s not like it’s important. Why not do something useful and get a job? It’s not hard.“

“Sir, would you like a bag?” the cashier spoke up, interrupting Jerry’s train of thought. Jerry blinked a few times. His brain must have gone into autopilot, while he continued to hear that degrading voice that sounded so similar to Beth, Rick, and the kids. He had to admit, it was nice to hear a sweet, kind voice out of all the hurtful, aggressive ones. He smiled, shaking his head lightly, “No, thank you, ma'am,” he replied. The cashier returned the smile, placing the cupcakes to the side, “That’ll be $4.15,” she chirped. Jerry pulled out his wallet, finding that he had six ones. Ugh, he really should have brought more cash.

The cashier glanced at the cupcakes, which were nothing special; just plain vanilla, “Last minute party pick up?” she questioned, a curious look in her eyes. She liked to make some conversation on slow days like these. Every customer had a story, and she always found people interesting. Jerry handed off the cash, briefly glancing at the cupcakes before shaking his head, “No, actually,” he replied, searching his mind for a lie. He really didn’t want to admit that he was buying them for himself. He’d feel so pathetic and… judged. Blue eyes scanned his face, searching for some sort of response, “I’m celebrating my daughter’s birthday,” he lied, pulling his best smile, “I figured, she’s eighteen now, so I’d buy her something small. She’s always said she prefered cupcakes anyways,” he added, watching as the cashier counted out his change. Jerry shifted his gaze to the side, a sad look in his eyes. He’s a grown man with a wife who sort of loves him, kids who treat him like shit and who take after their psychotic father-in-law, who just sees the family as puppets that he can pull the strings on. Was he even considered apart of the family? Or… was he just… invisible?

The sound of the woman clearing her throat got Jerry’s attention. She was holding out his change, her head tilted slightly to the side, “You seem distracted. Having trouble deciding on what to get your daughter?” she asked. Jerry took the change and responded with a shrug, picking up the cupcakes, which had the receipt placed neatly on top of them. He bid her farewell, avoiding her question entirely as he made his way out the door.

“Happy Birthday, to your daughter!” he heard her call out. Jerry had to smile at that. Despite his having told her it was Summer’s birthday, it was still nice to hear someone sort of wish him a happy birthday, even if it wasn’t a family member.

During his drive home, Jerry kept messing with the radio dials, praying he’d eventually find a station that wasn’t playing the exact same five songs over and over again. He gave up after a few minutes, seeing it as tedious at that point. Jerry glanced at the cupcakes he had placed on the passanger seat, a small frown forming on his face. He didn’t necessarily blame his family for forgetting about his birthday. They were just wrapped up in their own things. Beth had her heart surgeon job, Summer had her friends that were ten times cooler than he was, and Morty was off on some adventure with Rick. Jerry knew that he would be the last thing on anyone’s mind. Especially since this happened last year… and the year before that… and the year… before that…

A few more minutes of driving passed by, and soon enough Jerry pulled up in his drive way, parking the car and turning it off. Upon exiting the car, he went to check the mailbox, finding that nothing had come in (not even a card from his parents). Jerry sighed sadly, making his way to the front door. He dug a hand into his pocket in search of his house keys. He pulled them out and jammed them into the lock, twisting the key and opening the door.

He pulled the keys out of the lock and placed them back in his pocket, shutting the door behind him using his foot. The house was quite, leading Jerry to assume he was the only one home, as per usual. He made his way into the kitchen, gently placing the cupcakes on the counter and opening the container. He grabbed a nearby napkin and carefully picked up a cupcake. Jerry stared at it for a few seconds before a small smile managed to sneak its way onto his lips “Happy Birthday… to me…” he mumbled.

Slam!

Jerry winced at the loud noise made by Rick opening and shutting the garage door. Rick’s attention immediately fell on Jerry, noticeably bored and annoyed at the younger mans presence, “Oh, hey,” he muttered, walking over to the fridge and opening it, his eyes scanning over the various bottles and containers, “I-I wasn’t expecting you to be home,” he added “Weren’t you, ya know, going out to get a job?”

Jerry quietly scuffed. Of course his special day was going to be ruined by Rick. After all, Rick just loved to kick Jerry when he was already down. Jerry took a bite of the cupcake, seeing that it would be best to just ignore his drunk father-in-law rading through the fridge. Rick shut the fridge, annoyed that there wasn’t any more vodka. He turned his gaze to Jerry, his eyes immediately locking onto the cupcake that Jerry was eating, “Why-why in the-the hell did you buy those?” he asked, gesturing to the container of cupcakes. Jerry swallowed the food he had in his mouth, shooting a glare at Rick, “Not that you would care, but today’s my birthday,” he deadpanned, continuing to eat his cupcake.

Rick blinked several times, a very surprised look crossing his face, which went unnoticed by Jerry. Speaking of Jerry, it’s his birthday? Wait, when did…? Rick glanced around the kitchen, a confused look taking hold of his face when he saw no one else was in the room, “So… Where’s everyone else?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Jerry shifted his gaze to the side, noticeably upset. He shrug “Oh, you know… busy… with other things…” he replied, letting out a light chuckle, “Not like this is the first time I’ve spent my birthday alone, anyways.” He muttered the last bit more to himself than to Rick.

The scientist did his best to keep himself contained. He felt both guilt and anger clawing at the back of his mind. Seriously? Not even Beth, Summer or Morty celebrated with him? Rick thought back to the various years he’s been living with the Smith’s, and never recalled any time at all where Jerry’s birthday was celebrated. He remembered Beth’s, Summer’s, and Morty’s being celebrated, but never Jerry’s. Rick let out a small “Huh,” while wetting his lips. He turned to face the garage door, opening it, “Since-since you seem all-all content with y-your little pity party, I’ll be headin’ out,” he said, taking a few steps in the garage, “I should listened to that song in the ship,” he muttered as the door shut behind him.

Jerry sighed sadly, though he couldn’t help but feel curious as to what Rick meant by “song.” The house felt a lot bigger when he was alone. Jerry finished his cupcake and cleaned up the small mess in the kitchen. He made his way into the living room and took a seat on the couch, turning on the TV to watch some interdimensional cable.

“You really are pathetic aren’t you, Jerry? It’s your birthday and you’re just sitting on the couch watching TV like it’s a normal day,” a voice in the back of Jerry’s mind stated. Jerry did his best to ignore it, muttering “Today is normal. I’m just… older, is all…”

Rick couldn’t help but stare at Jerry, who was sleeping on the couch. He looked sad, even in sleep. Rick couldn’t help but wonder what he might be dreaming about. He made a mental note to comeback to the idea, given that he could easily build a machine that would show what someone was dreaming about. He sighed, approaching his son-in-law and giving him a light nudge in the shoulder, “Hey, wake the fuck up,” he snapped, doing his best to sound as annoyed as possible, which wasn’t hard. Jerry’s dark brown eyes immediately snapped open, locking with Rick’s dull blue. They reminded Jerry of Beth’s. So hurt and broken, yet when anyone so much as mentions anything being wrong they jump on the defensive.

“Move,” Rick snapped, gesturing for Jerry to get up. Jerry, having been snapped out of his thoughts, quickly got up from his seat on the couch. How long had he been asleep? Jerry opened his mouth to question Rick on when he had gotten home, but Rick shot him a glare before he could say anything. Jerry sighed and slowly began his walk to his office, not even bothering to mutter where he’ll be.

As soon as Jerry entered his office, his eyes fell on a neatly wrapped box sitting on his desk by his computer. He raised an eyebrow, hesitantly approaching the box. Upon approaching the box, he found a sticky note on top of it in neat handwriting. He picked up the note and read it.

“This means nothing, and if you make a bigger deal out of this then necessary I will kick your ass. I got this because I didn’t want to hear you bitch about how sucky your Birthday was going. I hate you. Happy Birthday, or whatever. -Rick.”

Jerry couldn’t help the small smile that slipped onto his lips. He placed the note on the desk and opened the present to find a Titanic book series complete with a poster and even Titanic trading cards. Jerry laughed lightly “Thanks Rick… I hate you too…” he mumbled quietly.

#rick and morty #rnm #rick and morty fanfiction #fanfiction #jerry smith #rick sanchez #beth smith #morty smith #summer smith #rick and jerry #jerrick #fluff #family fluff #hurt/comfort

16 notes · View notes

keltonwrites · 7 years

Text

open during construction

This is a post about weddings, and maybe about life. I was married on March 20. My husband didn’t go to college. I went to a school that in some parts of the country you can brag about until someone else brings up Yale. I graduated with a degree and bad grades that I never put on my resume, and they never mattered, for what it’s worth. (Thousands of dollars. They were worth thousands and thousands of dollars, and they never appeared anywhere but in a text to my parents.)

My first job out of college, I got because I knew someone. I quit that job. The job that supported me between that job and the next comes-with-health-insurance job was on a boat. It was also because I knew someone. That someone was the boat captain and we were dating. Sorry—we were sleeping together. Is it feminist or very not feminist that he paid me?

Anyway, the next real job I got was because I knew someone.

Only my third job did I get on my own merit. And when I quit that third job two years later on good terms, my boss told me that when he’d interviewed me, he knew that I wasn’t the best candidate, but he liked my attitude. Back then, I wore pencil skirts with pumps.

The next job I got, I also knew someone.

It wasn’t until my fifth real job that a headhunter found me, interviewed me, and hired me. And then, a year after working for that company, I made an internal shift to my dream job because they were small and agile at just 30 people. In the year following, they would hire 130 additional people. Like most people, I have impostor syndrome and work as hard as I can, 80% of the time.

Right, I was talking about weddings. I got married on March 20 at the end of a fire road. Fire roads in Los Angeles, in case you’re not familiar, are dirt and gravel routes that allow fire crews access to open land to fight wildfire. But most of the year, people use them for hiking, dog walking, and bike riding. We used ours for a wedding.

I wrote the wedding script. I’m still not sure if that’s what it’s called. We had our friend Dev ordained through an online ministry service, because for some reason outside of the separation of church and state, your marriage certificate requires it. The script finished with, “I now pronounce you wife and husband,” because I come first. Dev’s wife, our dear friend Halley, took photos. She’s a writer.

What I’m saying is we walked down a dirt path, where I gathered a bouquet I picked from the ground, to have a friend read out loud some words I had written that included jokes about shitting and dogs and crappy houses, to get married in front of just our parents and a writer who was taking photos. I ordered the dress I was wearing from a site called “Lulu’s”. It was $60, and it was beautiful. That was our wedding.

We’ve been married for two months. We just got our marriage certificate in the mail. We’d fucked it up the first time by not writing in that Dev was a “minister” because he isn’t. We didn’t want religion involved in our wedding. Adding it as an addendum later felt fine. My husband doesn’t believe in religion. I believe in astrology only when it tells me my career is going to take off.

My career has taken off, compared to not having one at all. I’ve been reading fewer horoscopes, and I’ve been writing significantly less. I am pursuing a career. My husband is pursuing a dream. He is currently making unemployment dollars. I pay rent and attention to our budget. He cleans the house. Sometimes, I struggle with it all, but most of the time, I don’t. Most of the time the person I love and married picks me up from work, makes me dinner, I read a little, and I fall asleep with him and both our pets piled on top of me. I forget the weight of my ambition when they replace it

This is the part about life. If your life has the opportunity to be good, let it. We can, of course, complicate things. We can add invitations and seating arrangements and showers. We can add mandatory partner checklists and gender roles and tradition. We can add whatever we like. But we should add the things that make us happy, if we are so able.

When I was young, there were many versions of myself that I pictured. But one that lingered was of a coiffed woman in a penthouse in New York. She made money and nothing else. She married in an art museum in an indigo gown. Her husband wore impeccable clothes, and they went to galas. He had a fancy degree, and a fancier pedigree. I don’t think I ever imagined us together, only imagined him like a check in a box.

But that’s not what happened, and thank religion. I live in a house with no insulation but a great view in a strange town where you can always hear the coyotes. My husband’s fanciest pedigree is his dog and his kindness. I make money, but I also make art and love and occasionally the coffee. The only thing I would call impeccable is my taste in adoptable cats. Most of my life I imagined all these things I needed to do by an age, by someone else’s standards, by this checklist that never ends. As soon as I got straight A’s, as soon as I got 10,000 followers, as soon as I got that offer, as soon as I, as soon as I, as soon as I, ad nauseam.

As soon as I stopped and felt my legs underneath me, as soon as I stretched my arms high into the sky and felt my spine lengthen, as soon as I noticed how scrunched my face was and relaxed it, as soon as I remembered I could play Spice Girls literally any time of the day I wanted, as soon as I did that, I was happy.

I still get grumpy. I still get greedy. I still envy and boast and posture and plead. I’m still disgusting at times, and not because I eat in bed or use the restroom without washing my hands, but because I’ll see a beautiful photo and purposefully not like it. Because I’ll say something sucks because I wish that I had it. I still get jealous when I find out someone’s household income. I still forget that my income, my income alone, is more than most people in the world will ever make. I still get mad that it takes time to write a novel. I get mad at time, and it feels nothing time and time again.

On reality TV shows, the contestants who are ousted so frequently say something like, “you’ll be seeing me again!” but we never do. They’re forgotten, only to be dragged through the mud by a person making $5 per post on the internet because they were once average looking and are now older. You’ll be seeing me again. It reminds me of businesses trapped behind scaffolding, heralding fresh banners saying, “OPEN DURING CONSTRUCTION!” Please don’t forget me. Please don’t let me die. But we are not businesses. We don’t die when we’re forgotten; instead, we are forgotten when we die. We have no mortgages on these bodies but time.

So I stretch my skin and feel grateful. I don’t own a home. I can’t buy a new car. I don’t have an agent. I can’t beat my old times. I don’t have a following. I’ve never been to a gala.

But I am, at least, open during construction.

103 notes · View notes

pretzel-lift · 7 years

Text

A Lifetime of Lifting

I wanted to publish this post to just tell my story; I’m seemingly at least a decade older than many lifters in the community and wanted to share where I’ve been, how I’ve gotten there, and what’s changed.

I’m going to start off by saying that this is gonna be long and probably boring, but if you’re into autobiographies then please stick with me lol. ---------

The first time I ever remember taking anything was when I was eight years old. I was playing at a friend’s house and she had an orange plastic toy compass that I remember thinking, “I want that.” I waited for her to leave the room and I stuck it in my pocket. I was so nervous, I remember my heart racing and making up an excuse that I needed to go home. I got on my bike and pedaled away from her house. I was never questioned about the whereabouts of the compass.

I don’t remember what I felt - I just know that “taking things” became a habit for me, always from school. Paperback books were a favorite; I could easily take them home from the classroom to read and just never return them. In fifth grade, I spied a brand-new multi-pack of rainbow colored overhead projector markers. A dozen beautiful colors called to me to steal them. Again, I waited for the opportunity for the classroom to be empty, and quickly zipped the package into my backpack.

A few days later, the teacher that I loved and never wanted to disappoint asked us to search the classroom for the package of markers. My heart began to pound again, but I knew the markers were safe at home, so I pretended to look for them along with everyone else. The search expanded to our bookbags and desks. Our teacher was beside herself as to where the markers could be. I never stepped forward and said that I did it, and I never returned them either.

This was the mid-90s, and I was ten years old. I knew nothing of security cameras at the stores, I don’t think it even dawned on me that stores would have such a thing to catch lifters. This was the first time you could say I was caught. One night, my mother and I went out to Big Lots, and I mentioned to her that there was a coffee mug I wanted a couple of aisles over, and it was $1.00. For whatever reason, my mom deemed that it was too expensive, and we kept shopping. I went back to “look” at the mugs again, and succeeded in peeling the sticker off a .39 mug and pasting it over the $1.00 sticker on the mug I wanted. I thought I was a genius and showed my mom that I’d found a cheaper mug. We went to check out and all was good until just before the cashier totaled the merchandise. To my mother’s embarrassment and my prepubescent chagrin, the manager came up and told my mother that I had been caught changing the price tag on the mug. My mother was fuming, and I denied it at first, but they had me caught and gave me a lengthy scare about shoplifting and how I was lucky to not be arrested. Ha.

When high school hit, lifting was a weekly thing for me. I had saved enough money from working for the down payment on a car, and was free to lift any time I wanted now. Two big-box retailers had made their way to our town a few years earlier, and suddenly, so much was mine - my entire makeup collection, novelty items, pens and notebooks, clothes, shoes. I concealed everything on-person initially, but I became braver and started using my purse. My boyfriend at the time stared in awe as I dumped dozens and dozens of packages of lifted Magic and YuGiOh cards onto his bed, yanked from the displays. Me1jer was a great store to lift condoms, lube, and cigarettes from - this was about 2001 and they still had old self-serve cigarette displays at the beginning of their checkout lines. I was a minor, so this was my go-to for cigarettes, stuffed away in my black canvas crossbody purse studded with (lifted) pins. This era of my life also saw the advent of me stealing my mom’s medicines to sell and even taking her wedding set to a pawn shop.

The year after graduation, I met my only lifting buddy to this date, Cat*. Cat worked at a mom-and-pop restaurant in a nearby town and pocketed at least a hundred a night from the register, or just taking the money the customers paid her with and only pretended to cash them out. I didn’t condone this personally, but it delighted me that I could exploit Cat for my personal gain, and soon Cat and I went on shopping sprees and it felt good to “buy” things, in our own way.

The year after that, I met my oldest child’s dad, and things were getting tougher. I was 20 years old and had been living on my own for two years at this point, and had an apartment full of friends with no jobs who were staying with me because they had “no place to go.” I was struggling to pay the bills (minimum wage at this time in my state was still $5.15 an hour), and had no money left over. I was working at a major retailer as a cashier, when one afternoon a customer knelt down in front of my register and came back up with a credit card. “Here, someone dropped this,” they said, and my head began swimming with the possibilities. “Thank you, I’ll take it to the office,” I told the customer, but the card was never turned in.

I realized that I had a very short window in which to act, so after work, I went on a shopping spree, packed my fridge and cabinets, and filled my gas tank. I signed an alias on the slips and promptly destroyed the credit card after the spree, which lasted no more than 24 hours. At the time, I assumed I wouldn’t be caught, that no cameras could denote who I really was, that nobody would be able to catch my license plate number. Very fortunately, I was not caught, but I had breached into new and very dangerous territory.

During that summer, I was very enamored with my (completely lazy and piece of shit) boyfriend, and would do anything to fund his every whims. Dropped credit cards showed up more often at my register, and I began treading into the waters of ORC, gift card fraud, and even check fraud. Hundreds of dollars were becoming mine with the ease of a few keypunches on the registers. I knew that I could get in huge trouble for all of these things, but I told myself that I was smart, I was ahead of the game. To this point, I had stolen money from every job I had worked at, and been fired from a few for doing such. But even with everything I was doing to stay ahead, the money was never enough - and I found myself pregnant that fall.

Shortly after becoming pregnant was the first time I was really caught, and it was so careless and embarrassing that it’s almost funny. My now-ex, his friend, and I strolled into one of the big-boxers with a freshly nabbed stolen credit card. Right off the bat, even for the given store, we looked sus as fuck - screwing around, dressed like trash, being loud. We stopped at the accessories department first and I foolishly took a pair of earrings off of a pack and put them in my ears. We laughed and joked through the store for at least two hours as we filled up our cart with the usual - food mainly, but other things like DVDs and candles and crap. We checked out at the register and I signed my alias on the credit card pad and we were on our way out the door with our several-hundreds-dollars haul. Just before the doors, we were stopped by two LP, they were talking so fast and shoving something in my face that it took me a minute to realize what was going on. One LP was holding up the placard that held earrings, one pair missing. The other was telling me I could not leave until I came with them and let them know what I did with the earrings. I became angry because I was caught, but I played it off like I was trying them on (what even?) and “forgot” I had them. The LP allowed me to go back through the line and purchase the whole package - which I did so with the stolen card I had. Irony. We were let go on the premise that we wouldn’t come back for six months. That didn’t last.

That scare set me back from lifting when I needed it the most. I was now pregnant, jobless, and even homeless - my boyfriend and I were staying from couch to couch with friends where we could. We had burnt bridges everywhere. My boyfriend refused to get a job and for some reason, I believe I deserved to be with someone like this. I scammed up six months of unemployment benefits, which was the best I could do in my condition, and we lived on $115 a week until the baby was born (rent was $100 a week).

A couple of months after our daughter was born, I was hired by another big-box retailer and found myself working at the customer service desk. I was mainly alone on my shifts after I had learned the ropes, and it got a little boring back there. I willed myself not to lift, even though I was needing it more than ever - even with a job and food stamps, I could barely pay bills, and still didn’t have a car. I discovered a gem while cleaning out the drawers in customer service one day - a drawer with lost IDs and gift cards in them. I surreptitiously pocketed the gift cards, left the IDs and whatever else was in there - junk jewelry, keychains. I went home that night and checked the balance on the gift cards, One of them had $100 on it. That week, at least, I could breathe easy.

I was becoming careless, though. The gift card I found with $100 on it was for the store I worked at, and I was nervous as all hell to shop for what I needed, so I went to a location out of town to spend it on body wash and stuff I needed for home. During my employment here, I gathered the skills I could to process fraudulent returns. All of the returned merchandise was kept behind the desk and sorted in to various carts to go back to stock at the end of the night. I was routinely (like every shift) beginning to take items that were brought to the service desk and process fraudulent returns on them to pocket the money or gift cards. It worked like this: a customer would do a return and I would give them the money. That’s fine, right? But I’d later take the same receipt copy I had and “return” some other things from the receipt, or just gather receipts from the parking lot and “return” the items. LP was gone after a certain hour (their office was right next to my desk). How would anyone know unless they were REALLY watching the cameras, and seeing that I was doing fake returns, haha right?

Haha indeed. One night, I was told to go on break, and someone came to relieve me of the desk. I knew that I had $60 in my sock from a fraudulent return I’d done way too early in the shift, and it wasn’t time for break. My stomach dropped and my mouth got hot and I knew I was caught even though everyone acted normal. I walked toward the break room, eager to sneak into the restroom and hide the money a little better, but I was stopped on the way and taken to the LP office. They had called a police officer and everything. They accused me of taking a little more than $1000 at this point, they’d been “watching” me. It never dawned on me that LP would build a case against me and then bust me later. I had assumed that the minute they catch you stealing, your jig was up, and they didn’t let it go further. I was wrong. I handed over the money they knew I had in my sock and tried to cry my way out of it.

What LP had caught me with paled in comparison to what I had actually made off with - of course, I didn’t let them know that. I complied. I cried. I told them I was scared and had nothing and just couldn’t make ends meet. Spoiler alert, they didn’t believe me, or care. LP left the room after awhile and left me in there with the police officer. By the grace of god knows what, and very graciously, the police officer told me that he was not going to arrest me, but that this was extremely serious and could land me in prison. The retailed had accused me of over a grand - but instead of pressing charges or showing camera footage or anything “proving” what I’d done, I was made to sign a couple of papers. One was terminating my employment, and another was sort-of a promissory note of payback. I was banned from this retailer for a number of months, ordered to pay back what they accused me of taking, and a few other stipulations. I left that night crying and calling my mom for a ride - again, I was 21 and alone with no job or car, only this time I had an infant to care for with very little help from anyone. I had nothing to my name, not even a bed or a couch in my disgusting apartment. I managed to scam up 10 weeks of unemployment benefits again, but that was the last.

This incident was over 11 years ago. I was shook to the core and vowed to never lift again. Eight years passed and I found a very long and hard way to “better,” involving leaving my ex (he still to this day does nothing for his child), going on to marry someone else, gaining financial stability and independence, and not lifting a single cent in that time.

But a few years ago, I felt like I was going crazy. I was severely depressed and manic. I have long since been diagnosed with OCD and kleptomania, but I abated myself and the urges. I joined tumblr in 2013 on my main. In 2014, I got curious about lifting again - and searched the tags for shoplifting hauls or something like that. Holy shit, what a world I’d stumbled on. See, up until I got popped at work and terminated, I had no internet to turn to, no community, no reddit, no tumblr, and I never even searched up forum boards on my illegal pastime. I learned it all on my own, every victory, every misstep, every twist and turn - but here, oh here on liftblr...holy. fucking. shit. These people knew EVERYTHING. They knew how to take hard security tags off (something I had never considered fucking with), they knew entire store layouts and how to lift and most importantly, how to stay safe. Fuck. Here came the urges again - and I was absolutely certain that if I studied, I could do this again.

Well, it’s 2017, and here I am. Two thirds of my life as a lifter. I am now in my early 30s, I am a wife and a mother, I work a great job. I am not financially insecure. During the eight years I was inactive, I established a rapport with many of the store staff in the town I live in, and have been taught what to watch out for and what to avoid. I feel like this is a pertinent step in not being caught, and I often lift along with my regular shopping. I am eternally grateful for finding this community because without it, I’d be lost. I’m grateful for every (good) tip and love admiring people’s hauls. I don’t have a ton of tips, but I do want to share what I do.

- The majority of my method is simply walking out of the store with items, or leaving them in my cart (under a purse or bag). I do this a bit brazenly and I do not recommend it. But the idea behind lifting, no matter WHY you do it, is to beat LP at their game. Your objective is to outsmart them. I choose this method because at my age, the repercussions are greater, and because the ONLY thing that will get you caught is INTENT. If it never looks like you intended to lift, you will get out of this every time, I promise. I’m not saying to walk out with mounds of clothing draped over your arm - that’s simply un-doable. But I am most comfortable walking out with a couple of things here or there, especially in crowded stores, because the intent isn’t clear - did I mean to walk out with those items, or didn’t I? I do conceal when I need to - when I go on a “bigger” haul and use my magnet and such. But I’m mainly still not totally comfortable with it.

- I don’t fuck with K0hl’s, M@cy’s/C@rsons, and generally don’t fuck with W@lmart. They’re way, way too good in my town, and have been known to hire actual uniformed police officers to assist LP in watching for theft.

- Do your research and check Facebook for a local police scanner page for your area. This has helped me many times when they post theft calls and to which store (for more info on this please message me). Google lifting in your area, especially store-specific.

- Always pay in cash. Do not leave a paper trail of any type, and the best advice I can give is to be natural. It is a HUGE risk to drive to a store and park and lift and hope they don’t get your plate number...but it’s also sus to be walking from a long way away, and can be unreliable to be dropped off.

- You will be suspected if you don’t act the part. When people ask you about your thoughts on lifting, or mention lifting to you in conversation, you must join their opinion and pretend that lifters are scum trash who deserve to fry in prison. Literally, that is what all of my coworkers think. As much as it pains me and I want to argue with them, you just HAVE to agree.

- By now, you all know not to leave packages behind, and not walk around the store with your items, obviously searching for a blind spot. Pro tip: conceal as you move, if you’ve got to conceal on-floor. Utilize your phone and wallet to hide items to easily into your bag or jacket. Conceal on-person as much as you can. I submitted the tip about using a magnetic back brace/knee brace to lift with/make your magnets non-sus. Use this tip.

- Give yourself a limit per store, especially when beginning. You have a craft to hone, and you likely aren’t going to haul off with a grand in merch the first time. Start small and keep practicing this item limit. Begin with one item per store so you don’t get overwhelmed. Work on this and master it then move up to two or three, mastering each level confidently. Always leave your items behind if you suspect you’re being watched. Greed will kill you if you have not mastered the basics.

- If caught, I personally do not recommending running. I know that some have, but to me, the risk of a resisting arrest charge and possible injury are not worth it. I have no parents to answer to and nobody to punish me except the police, so I will stick with this.

- Most of us are pretty curious about lifting in our teens, even if only to just see if we can do it. This is illegal and I’m telling you right now that if you can’t or are not comfortable lying, this activity is not for you. Because eventually, you will be lying a lot to people about items and activities. Some people are simply not good lifters and this should be learned sooner rather than later (for the sake of your permanent record).

- Some have been caught/beeped a lot, some have never. Some is luck, most is skill, but the main thing you must remember is that if truly caught, you risk jail time, fines, and humiliation. You risk losing a chance at gainful employment if you catch a felony. Your name and maybe even photo, along with your charge, will be posted in your local newspaper and everyone will know and they won’t trust you anymore. Research your state laws but remember that if you are caught, it is VERY hard to use what you remember on Google to get out of an arrest. If you’re facing a felony, hire a lawyer and they will do the talking for you.

- Graciously, I have still to this day never been convicted, not even of the ORC activities, fraud/forgery, or identity theft. I do not know how or why I was released that night from the officer when it was pretty obvious that I was guilty. I hope to maintain a clean record permanently.

313 notes · View notes