Feel the Rhythm, Feel the Ride

Fabio Kills a Goose
In loving memory of that one time Fabio killed a goose with his face.

I’m drinking wine that my cousin inherited from a dead woman two years ago (2012, 100% Torrontés, which, I don’t know what that means), debating whether or not to shut down this blog. But I just paid for another year for WordPress Premium, so I guess I have the next year to decide.

It’s just that I’m not loving the idea of having my stupidity immortalized in “The Archive,” and having a record of my idiocy for people to refer back to does not make for growth.

**IN THE MEANTIME, ATTN: My bitchery has now been flagged by Facebook as — somehow, alluvasudden, miraculously against its Community Standards.

THEREFORE, quick favor: try to post it, and once it pulls up the below prompt, just, you know, “let them know.”

Screen Shot 2019-12-26 at 16.26.51


As I have already previously bemoaned, I haven’t been writing on here (as much as I keep telling myself — and all of you — that I will do more often) because I’ve been on my grind trying to make it as *a writer*. To date, I’ve only gotten a handful (count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5) of champagne grapes from that labor, but they say that when you buy fruit trees (or vines), it could take up to several years for them to actually bear fruit. It’s a long game, fam (at least, that is what I must believe).

Because if that’s not the case in my case, then I just spent the last year of my 2010s sucking air into my face and online shopping. Adulthood is a trap, guys.

Admittedly, I’m a little pissed off that I haven’t found my money-generating, bullshit purpose yet. I really thought this blog would be it; alas, I don’t write in it often enough (or market it at all) to get anywhere (and now Facebook and Instagram have banned my blog links — LOL as if I didn’t already fucking hate you guys).

There are people out here who have professions that don’t make sense in the framework of an operational society but that manage to fund their glamorous lifestyles. Beauty influencers, who are (I’m guessing) supposed to democratize beauty so that it’s more accessible to us uggos, can spend $30,000 in one week on beauty products and services — and all of that can be written off their taxes because their fucking job is “beauty influencer.”

There’s a woman in LA who makes a living off appropriating other cultures’ tea ceremonies.

Then, there’s the professional stretcher who tells you how to sleep so that you don’t end up like Quasimodo in your semi-old age.

There is also the professional fake shopper, whose job doesn’t sound so bad, except that it’s con artist-adjacent. I loved this part, though:

“We will not reimburse you for purchases, but if you want to buy a hot dog? Sit down and eat it right outside the store? Knock yourself out.”

Standards are for rich people. Where do I sign?

Or, if I don’t even want to pretend to have a job anymore, I can just be like these two useless dingleberries, who made one of their moms work two jobs to pay for their wanderlust excursions, and who started a GoFundMe page for their social media followers to foot their travel expenses.

Summation: This is total bullshit. The game is rigged.

For some reason, though, when I look at mukbang videos, I think, “Now, here’s an enterprise worth exploring.” (Please just watch this clip from CBS Sunday Morning, if only to see Jane Pauley introduce the segment, and David Pogue being white-guy weirded out by everything).

I think mukbang videos are all-at-once boring, repulsive, and mesmerizing, but if it can make me a millionaire in 15 months, can my broke ass knock it?

My one obstacle (other than abject shame) is that I eat gross. As in, it’s not fun watching me eat (much less erotic) and even less so watching me struggle to breathe at the same time. Sometimes, I accidentally bite my cheek, and one eye — just one! — shutters like a dying light bulb. I can only imagine that I’ll die a cold, lonely death for that fact alone.


IDK, you guys. I can only say “I’m a writer” now because I literally do nothing else for income, but I don’t make enough money to support my skincare, swimsuit, and Trader Joe’s wine habits — and are those not the markers of success? I also traveled a lot last year, and those expenses are finally catching up with me, just in time to assess how much I owe the IRS! I’m not feelin’ all too glam at the mo’.

Writing for money is an impoverished exercise in masochism. And, for some reason, I don’t think my Asian grandma vampire tragicomedy screenplay is taking me anywhere fast.

If I were to define where I am on this rollercoaster, ‘twould be the plunge:

New Yorker "Welcome Aboard Our Newest Roller Coaster, the Freelancer"
From The New Yorker’s “Welcome Aboard Our Newest Roller Coaster, the Freelancer

I also think that, in many ways, I’m still in an Empire State of Mind. Read:

“My job is my life, but it’s also just something I’m doing to make ends meet while I pursue my true passion, which is why I moved to New York in the first place.”

But also:

New Yorker - My Typical New York Day
From The New Yorker’s “My Typical New York Day”

 


What’s a girl to do? Resort to more drastic measures?

@joeygllghr tweet

Also, I quit yoga and I have yet to swim in the ocean since I arrived. Nicht gut.

1 Comment

  1. A roller coaster ride of an article. Well crafted!

    This was engaging and entertaining. I’m glad you have another year with us! I hope you fill it with plenty more poetic posts.

    This is the kind of thing that I love about writing.

    Thanks for sharing!

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