All That Glisters Is Not Gold

Yes, it is ‘glisters,’ per the original wording in The Merchant of Venice. Not ‘glitters.’ Fucknuts.

I don’t even know where I’ve been.

A week after my last entry, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years, so that sucked. I’m not saying I was completely heartbroken, per se, but, like, it felt like someone ripped my heart out of my butt (and I, like, cried myself to sleep every night for a month after that, but whatever).

Three days after we broke up, I left for Asia—Japan, Vietnam, and a pitstop in Cambodia—to blow the last of my meager savings and go on a “spirit quest”: to heal my heart, find my spirituality, and reclaim my homeland. It was basically my version of Eat Pray Love… except less douchey (or maybe not, who can say) and more bootlegged, and instead of traveling for a year, I traveled for three weeks and shamelessly mooched off my cousins for everything but souvenir expenses. In Vietnam, I ate and slept and played at family-run establishments and milked the nepotism cow till it died. The only price I had to pay were those awkward moments when I forgot or was too nervous to speak Vietnamese, and something mangled and half masticated and completely not what I wanted to say came out, and murderous silence followed. So, apparently, I need to brush up on my Vietnamese before it’s too late and the last impression I leave my family in Vietnam is that I’m an idiot.

But it was amazing being in Southeast Asia. My money went far there. I had connections, I had [unearned] respect, I had the best food of my life all day, every day. What the fuck was I rushing home to New York for? I spent the last few days of my trip bracing myself for coming home to an empty apartment, to my streets where apparently no one picks up after their dogs and the rats are the size of Chihuahuas, to my newly single life and my dog (who didn’t even miss me all that much), and to unemployment.

Then, about a week after I came home—as though God decided to spare me—I got a new job! It was my first time negotiating a salary, and let me tell you I was in no position to be arguing for more than what they offered (which was a lot, compared to my net worth of $0 at the time). But, like a troll, I knew that they were on deadline for someone to start immediately and were (essentially) just as thirsty as I was, so—ipso facto—I had leverage. One red flag: the recruiter told my reference that they were a bit “disorganized.” READ: I was about to be 300-kicked into a mud-hole of shit to either bury myself or dig myself out.

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One week in, and true to their promise, I was ready to walk out of said job and burn the building to the ground. The drafting of a contingency plan with my sister went as follows:

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**Note: I understand that prostitution and escort work are not synonymous. I do not belittle either profession. I do, however, recognize that I would not be well adept at either.

Alas, that sounds terrifying. So I’ve decided to seek alternative options.

I wanted a job so badly so I could have healthcare and income to help me pay off the beaucoups bucks I owe the state and federal governments in 2016 taxes. And I got one. But I kind of hate my job and lament that I don’t have any ‘me time’ anymore to, you know, develop my novel…?

My options, then, are:

  1. Be poor
  2. Be miserable and employed
  3. Become an escort (or, per my dad’s suggestion, a drug dealer)

I do this to myself, I know.

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