anima-di-lupo:
Aunque llevo dos semanas siendo residente de la isla de Manhattan en New York, U.S.A., no puedo desligarme de mi costumbre de levantarme y verificar “El Nuevo Día” todos los días. El prímer rotativo del país (aunque de una calidad que va en picada día tras día) que informa sobre los acontecimientos que ocurren en la isla. Es verdaderamente perturbante ver lo que ocurre.
Personas que literalmente se rocían gasolina por encima y se prenden en fuego, niños muertos a causa de la criminalidad, padres abusivos, balaceras de un carro a otro en medio de la autopista a plena luz del día, crímenes sin resolver, una cantidad extrema de desempleo en la isla, la probreza extrema que arropa a la isla. Una probreza económica y de valores, de identidad, de salud mental. La educación sigue yendo en picada y me pregunto, ¿hasta cuando van a tolerar eso? El país se le está cayendo en canto en las manos a los políticos que lo único que hacen es velar por sus propios intereses, sin importar el partido.
Se acercan las malditas elecciones y tenemos la misma cantaleta que llevamos escuchando desde hace ya más de medio siglo, es increíble como las personas siguen cayendo bajo la incesante ola de mentiras, de promesas falsas, y como el puertorriqueño continúa entregándole sus sueños a hombres inexcrupulosos que lo único que quieren es su permiso para continuar dictando el futuro del pueblo y aumentar la panza y el dinero en sus bolsillos. Y sí, dije permiso, no voto. Un voto es una elección de un candidato con el ínteres de mejorar la sociedad, la situación económica y que vela por la seguridad de aquellos que le permitieron estar en esa posición de orgullo y honor. Un hombre que sabe que él está al servicio de un pueblo y no lo contrario.
Puertorriqueños es tiempo ya de que se den cuenta de que ustedes son los que tienen el control de la situación, son ustedes los que pueden sacar a estos tiranos verdes, rojos y azules del poder. Es tiempo ya de que ustedes le retiren el poder y la confianza a estas personas mezquinas, embusteros y criminales que nosotros mismos año tras año le pagamos el sueldo. Hagan el ejercicio de buscar fotografías de nuestros políticos antes de entrar en su término y vean como les ha crecido la panza. Ahora miren en su papelera, vean sus carteras y verifiquen sus bolsillos, todos ustedes que trabajan, y díganme si es justo que ustedes ya no tengan. Ustedes, madres, padres, abuelos, tíos, vecinos, que ya no tienen casi ni para vivir tranquilos, viviendo cheque tras cheque con las esperanzas de que “este mes me dé”. Es tiempo ya de deshacernos de la ilusión de que tenemos, porque no tenemos. Tu casa es del banco y hasta que no la termines de pagar no tienes nada. Cuando la termines de pagar tienes que pagar el CRIM. Tus tarjetas e crédito están al límite y si crees que tienes porque te sobra algo de la beca, tampoco tienes nada, porque al fin y al cabo tú eres la paga. Tu te conviertes en profesional para trabajar en sus sistema, perpetuando así el gran ciclo de vida.
Es tiempo de despojarnos de las ilusiones, de salir del humo del opio de las pasiones politico partidistas, es tiempo de crear consciencia civil. Darnos cuenta de que lo que le pase a mi prójimo me afecta a mi directamente, que lo que pasa día a día es también mi culpa, y tu culpa por habernos quedados de brazos cruzados por tanto tiempo. Es tiempo de que dejemos de prestar atención a cuanta estupidez se nos pone de frente para que felizmente ignoremos los verdaderos males que azotan a la isla. Con una calidad de vida que va decayendo ya no se puede vivir en paz y considero que es tiempo de algo nuevo.
Considero que necesitamos un gobierno capaz, que escuche la voz del pueblo, que este atento a los reclamos de los residentes de la isla. Necesitamos educadores capacitados y que se les capacite, que se le de las herramientas para continuar educando. Necesitamos una fuerza policiaca entrenada y humana. Una fuerza policiaca sin corrupción, con personas pensantes y racionales capaces de dicernir y actuar en cuanto a lo que es humano; no necesitamos más policias corruptos ni seres humanos con sed de poder. Lo más importante y aquí redundo, necesitamos un gobierno nuevo.
Un golpe de estado, limpiar por completo cada asiento de nuestro gobierno, comenzar desde cero. Entrar en la casa de las leyes y que salga cada uno de ellos y que no se les deje volver a entrar, pues es el pueblo quien reclama “ya basta, fuera” y ellos como funcionarios públicos tienen que obedecer, pues ellos no están por encima de nosotros, nosotros estamos por encima de ellos. Somos más y en la unión está la fuerza. Necesitamos unificarnos, crear una fuerza impenetrable, tenemos que revolcar el hormiguero, tenemos que darles miedo. Es tiempo ya de que los gobernantes recuerden quién tiene el poder, es tiempo de que sean ellos los que nos teman.
No le creo a ninguno, pero si creo que nos deben temer, creo que nos deben respetar y creo que ya es tiempo de actuar.
(Source: paradoxical-holmes)
@3 months ago with 2 notes
Due to life and reasons, there’s no Friday article. I didn’t have time to finish anything for today. However, unless I just plain forget, next week should have articles on the usual days. If not, I’ll be sure to let you (all seven of you!) know.
Cheers and thanks for reading.
@3 months ago
#adminstrative #whoops
This is going to seem like something silly to write about, but trust me on this.
You see, I’m not very sure about other parts of the world, but around here, the whole hair is a woman’s life thing is set to volume 11. Basically, the younger you are, starting at about nine up till old age, the longer your hair needs to be. It doesn’t matter what kind of hair you have or whether you can put the time and effort to care for long hair, that’s just the way it goes. Seriously, I hear it all the time. “I hate my long hair!” “It’s so much trouble!” But then someone innocently suggests cutting it, or just trimming it, and it’s like they actually suggested drinking baby blood.
Now, as for me, I wore my hair long from about the time I turned nine all the way till I turned 19. And I didn’t have manageable hair, or more concisely, pretty white girl hair. It was curly and messy. And considering my culture’s obsession with white people, this obviously turned into a battle to keep my hair pretty and straight. Usually, it was a losing battle. That is, until I said fuck this and started wearing my hair short. And frankly, it wasn’t really that big of a deal to me. The roof didn’t collapse over me, nor did the apocalypse start. My hair was just short now.
But if you listened to other people, you really would think the end was nigh. It’s statements like…
Oh, you look nice. But what happened to your hair?
Nothing happened to my hair. I got it cut, I didn’t shave it off. This is basically when someone is trying to be polite, but can’t get over the shock of a woman with short hair. Or else they’re not being polite at all. This statement can also be used as a backhand comment. “You look ugly as all shit with short hair, why in fuck’s sake did you cut it short?” Or, “Women are supposed to have it long, you’re doing it wrong.”
It’s fine, I get it, women will only look pretty when they have long hair that takes gobs of money to care for. But I don’t have gobs of money. And I don’t have patience to deal with hair. I remember this was the most frequent thing people told me when I cut it short for the first time. I get that my long hair was sort of nice. But it took two hours to blow dry. And it also took an extra hour to flat iron. Plus, because of all the heat and the hair chemicals to keep it looking decent, it was in terrible condition.
Also, it’s hot and humid here. Having long hair is kind of like having a portable sauna.
Did something happen?
Ah yes, this comment. The one that basically is trying to ask you, “did someone die/did you lose your job/did you and your boyfriend break up?” Because something obviously must’ve happened to drive me to Scissor Land. And it has to be something traumatic, since otherwise we’re back at the previous statement.
The thing is, I can understand the reasoning behind this. Especially if a woman’s had her hair long for forever, a sudden change in hair length does beg the question of whether it’s accompanying a bigger life change. Sometimes, people don’t like to talk about said changes and would rather let appearances do the talking. And I think that’s fine and cool. To each their own.
But I think it’s kind of condescending to automatically assume that. Last year, when I was cutting my hair after it’d gotten too long, the hair stylist automatically asked if something had happened. I said no, of course, because nothing had happened. Then, in an effort to make conversation I suppose, she began talking about other clients who’d come in asking for haircuts had apparently been going through tough life stuff. Divorces, breakups, lost their job, you name it, and it seemed like cutting their hair was the best way to go.
It never seems to occur to anyone that by implying that short hair equals an Eat Pray Love novel, they’re also implying that there can be no other reason to cut beautiful long hair except terrible life occurrences.
You look like a boy!
This one’s come up much more with last year’s cut and my current pixie cut. My previous cuts were short, but they were sort of bobs, with long bangs framing my face. So they were distinctly feminine. However, and especially this year. I kinda said, “screw hair”, and just lopped off as much as I could. And it makes me happier, since there’s less hair to clean up in my shower.
But with such short cuts at such a young age, the next step is to directly insult my gender and sexuality. Oh, I must be lesbian. That’s why I cut it so short. That’s too bad for my boyfriend of five years then, right? That must also explain my distinctly unwomanly look. Nothing can be worse for me as a woman than to look like the exact opposite. Except that I still have pretty big breasts hanging in front.
And see, this kind of makes me angrier than the above, if only because it reeks of the kind of sexism everyone pretends we’re behind. Yes, gender equality! We’re all equal! We’ve never ever been unequal! But as soon as the hair’s short and I’m wearing boy shirts and I forego the makeup, all bets are off. I’m now a butch lesbian trying too hard to be a man. Has it occurred to no one that maybe the short hair and the boy shorts are for comfort? No? Okay.
Granted, I’m not criticizing women who are more “feminine”, but I am criticizing those who have opinions as such.
Long hair is much better on a woman.
The last time I got my hair cut, which was in December, the hair stylist was cool about it. She did ask if I was sure I wanted the pixie cut I got, because it is pretty short. And once those scissors started snipping there was probably no turning back. And, by preferring the short hair, I said it was perfectly fine as long as she didn’t fuck it all up. So she started cutting and whatnot. You know, a typical trip to a beauty salon.
What wasn’t nice or typical was the hair stylist next to mine. She had her own client, and still felt the need to not only exclaim, very loudly, “oh my, so short?” but also remark on my taste in hair. “Long hair would look much better on you, it fits much better on young women after all.” Oh why yes, of course! Silly me, letting MY stylist cut my hair short! What on earth am I doing? Stop at once you silly woman, can’t you see I need to keep my hair long?
Look honey (all of you). I paid my hair stylist good money to chop off my hair and make it pretty for the next several months. If I wanted my hair any other way, I wouldn’t be sitting here doing this. I’d be in your chair, getting my hair trimmed half a centimeter, and remarking on how wonderful it feels to have long hair. But I’m not. I don’t care what you, or every other person on this godforsaken island, think about women and hair. I don’t like my hair long. I’m cutting it short. Even if it makes me a manly man.
So please, please, stay out of my hair.
@3 months ago with 1 note
#hair #seriously
Here’s the deal. I’m Puerto Rican, albeit a white one with white features. I’m certainly not the stereotypical sun baked Puerto Rican with black hair and dark eyes. But strangely, it’s impossible for me to mix with Americans. I’m serious, it’s like they can smell the minority out of me, and it never fails. Or else I’m on the phone with someone and I happen to start speaking Spanish. Then all of a sudden it’s a conversation piece.
Therefore, it usually comes as no surprise to me when I eventually become treated as The Puerto Rican Friend. I’m then placed on a pedestal and become the representative of an entire culture and race, which is uncomfortable and just plain weird. So, this is me, officially ending my role as a minority collectible. Because usually, I have to endure things like…
How come you can’t do/are not [insert thing/trait supposedly common in us]?
This also varies by culture and race. In my case, one of the biggest stands out is salsa music and dancing. And believe me, many people do dance very well to salsa music. I don’t though. I barely know how to dance, period. So if I’m out with a group of people who aren’t Puerto Rican and we stop by a place playing salsa music, suddenly I’m the salsa teacher.
Imagine a group of people looking at me, bright eyed and hopeful, thinking this is their chance to finally learn salsa from someone who knows. Who knows how long I’ve been dancing? Hell, maybe I even danced out of the womb. Now, imagine these people getting their hopes and dreams utterly crushed, possibly by a bulldozer, when they learn that I’ve hardly ever danced in my life, and I don’t plan on it.
Sometimes, it’s cool. The people will just shrug and smile, and we’ll all grab beers and be happy. Other times, the silence that occurs is far too awkward to endure as everyone is doing his or her best not to offend me, even though I don’t care. Still other times, everyone laughs while saying, “Oh, you’re just shy, show us how to dance!” Yeah, the good old Faking It tactic to avoid doing something embarrassing. Only the silence is even more stifling once my stony face indicates that I’m not lying.
The more demeaning version of this is when people comment on my skin color. “You’re so white!” Why thank you, like I never noticed when I get up every morning and get a glimpse of my visage in the mirror. I know I’m white. But I guess you must be implying that I shouldn’t be white. Or maybe there’s something special, something different about me. Maybe I’m an ultra-collectible minority friend or something.
And that usually leads up to this classic…
Where are you really from?
Though I write about me, I’m pretty sure this can apply to people from other cultures and races, and that’s due to stereotypes. Remember how I described Puerto Ricans earlier? Having dark skin, dark eyes and hair? They’re also somewhat short, and if the person is a woman, they have a huge ass, small tits and are ravishingly beautiful. Basically, it’s like typifying Jewish people (big noses, large bags of money), when you must know that not all Jewish people are the same (there are poor Jewish people, you know).
Now, I don’t want to dispute all the stereotypes (I am a ravishingly beautiful woman after all), but since I don’t fit all of the criteria mentioned, the automatic assumption must be that I’m either lying or I’m not really Puerto Rican. And while the light skin and not dark eyes are misleading, at what point did you think that all Puerto Ricans looked the same? Was it that jackass Amaury Nolasco, or was it Jennifer Lopez? Because if you take a closer look at our history, you’ll realize this is genetically impossible.
A good chunk of our DNA is split between Spaniards and Africans. It’s actually not uncommon to find families where both parents are black but the kid isn’t so much, or the other way around, where the parents are light skinned, but their kid turned out darker. Somewhere in the 19th, century, Spain said, “Fuck this”, and let European Catholics colonize and run plantations. That added some French, Corsican, German and Irish blood into the mix. And then there’s island’s unofficial title as “The World’s Bus Stop”, so there are countless of other mixes here.
So, I’m sorry to disappoint. I am Puerto Rican. Unfortunately, I’m also shattering your stereotypes, so deal with it.
Wow, you’re culture is so fascinating!
There’s nothing wrong with the above statement taken on its own with no context. In the best of scenarios, maybe it’s a compliment. It could be that, after doing genuine research, you took the time to meet different people and visit for long periods of time. After putting together all the pieces of the puzzle, you decided that, on the whole, my culture truly is fascinating, taking both the good and the bad.
But this is never the case. I used to work for the tourism department, greeting tourists as they skipped off their cruise ships wearing white clothing and hats. Usually after exclaiming how tan I was (which is typical when you’re working outside ship docks in the sun on a tropical island), they’d tell me how amazing they found our culture. And how amazing our alcohol was.
Then, after maybe ten minutes of trying to walk around Old San Juan, they might realize it’s kind of tiring, considering it was built on hills. So once they’re absolutely sure they have the requisite photos posing in front of a few historical monuments, they either skip back to their ship, or they grab a taxi to a casino to blow away their money. Once their whole trip is over and they’re back home, they absolutely can’t wait to tell all their friends how much they learned about us.
The problem was that these cruise ships usually harbored in Old San Juan, one of the oldest establishments both on the island and the whole of the hemisphere. So of course it caters to tourists. I can’t find an exact number, so assume we get a buttload of them every month. And it’s right next to what’s called Condado, which caters to rich people, tourists and Americans. You’re not the first person to come in for a few hours and take advantage of duty-free alcohol while gambling once you’ve asphyxiated from the humidity. Really, I’m glad you enjoyed your stay, but you sure didn’t stay long enough to know our culture.
“Why can’t you guys man up and make a political decision for yourselves?”
This is the most frequent question I get and is by far the most annoying one. A lot of people, Americans and other foreigners alike, usually get a glimpse of Puerto Rico either when big shit goes down, or from watching boxing matches. And probably J. Lo’s ass. Usually, if the person is a Concerned White Liberal, they’ll read articles on the Internet, like this one from the Huffington Post. And they’ll assume what one person noticed and pointed out in his rebuttal towards the Huffington piece: that we’re all lazy and spineless drug addicts.
So of course the first thing I get to do, as the sole representative of my country’s political and social situation, is to answer why we’re apathetic thieves. First of all, it’s pretty damn ignorant to assume that my opinion will define an entire culture. There are about 4 million of us on this Island, and about 5 million more abroad. That makes 9 to 10 million of us total. To assume that my opinion is representative of anything is pretty closed-minded. I can give you my opinion as, well, my opinion, but don’t use it as the defining opinion when talking with others.
Second, by asking a question along those lines, you also make the mistake of assuming that the reason we apparently can’t get shit done is due to a few, very simple reasons. Perhaps we’re just not educated enough. Maybe we don’t have enough of a cultural identity. If only we’d see the value in developing agriculture and local businesses, we’d see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’re probably just stealing away federal money and laughing while walking the bank. There just has to be some kind of rational and easy way to make sense of this.
But there isn’t. Many reasons, most deeply engrained in our history and in our culture, make things extremely difficult and complex. We can’t speak Spanish or English properly because English was forced on us when the Americans colonized us. We were an autonomous state, for about two years, until the Spanish American War came along. We did have plenty of agriculture, until foreign businesses came in the 50’s and made working in factories more ideal, a better way to build a future for our families. And then there’s the fear, instilled in us from years of political jargon and from the media, of becoming like other South American countries: (even more) poor and (even more) corrupt. It’s the thought that we’re nothing without the U.S.
No, that isn’t true. But try telling that to a population kept in apprehension over any possibility of something different from what we have.
What all this means is that I can’t answer your question about why we can’t man up. Nor can I dance salsa for you. And I’m sorry that your ignorance offends me sometimes. I hope you understand and think and read a little before eating up the first Internet article you read concerning us. But for now, I’m not going to be your collectible friend anymore, not until you treat me like your average person.
@3 months ago
#white supremacy sucks
About two years ago, I finally set sail on the Real Life boat, anxious and ready to prove myself to the world that I truly was an adult. I was ready, and I knew that I would somehow get this shit to work.
So, despite being mostly independent throughout college, I lived in their dorms mostly, since it was cheaper than renting an apartment. Strangely, though, they kick you out as soon as you graduate, so I was left to my own devices for living quarters. My significant other was a solid option, until he had to move out of his apartment. That left me to scrounge together a couple of paychecks and find myself an apartment. I only had about $500 to work with at the moment, and I knew it would be extremely difficult finding a place. Especially since many landlords ask for a deposit, which is usually the same amount as one month’s worth of rent.
In my desperation to keep it cheap, I found a place about twenty minutes outside the city. It was $350 a month with water and electricity included, and there was no security deposit upfront. How could I say no to that?
But my cheapness would be my downfall.
The landlord, whom for the sake of privacy I’ll rename Rico Suave, took his whole house and repurposed it as an apartment complex. And his terms for each tenant were the same: no security deposits needed, no long-term contracts required. Just pay the rent and you’re good to go. Along the way of repurposing his house for profit, he must’ve apparently had a swimming pool with no real use. I suppose buying and raising sharks is a pretty hard habit to maintain in the long run after all.
Instead of just draining the pool and selling the sharks and leaving it as is, Rico must’ve had a better idea. It wasn’t enough to have at least seven apartments ready to go. No, he probably thought, “What if I could take this giant water basin and turn it into a place someone could sleep in?”
And that’s when Rico set about to adding some sparse furniture, along with building a makeshift second floor for a stove and some cabinets and, oh yeah, a shower. Since, you know, the pool wouldn’t be a pool anymore and any future tenants would have to eventually drown themselves somewhere. What could possibly go wrong here?
Well, for starters, how about being surrounded by cement? I live on a tropical island to begin with, so imagine a humid 90 degree Fahrenheit summer just seeping through a thick, cement wall once known for holding pool water. It gets a little uncomfortable. Then, since the former water tank needed extra walls up top because it didn’t have any, the holes left in for windows were too high to pull in any air. So instead of an apartment, I was stuck with a sauna where I happened to sleep.
But it was cool. I could handle it. I was an adult now. All first apartments had to be shitty, because otherwise I wouldn’t have any funny stories to tell future children. I mean, at least I wasn’t getting wet from the rain, right?
Well, actually, it turned out that the roof leaked constantly.
Asides from being a quick and cheap solution, another thing I enjoyed about the apartment was that it was next to a beach. So I could enjoy nice, summer days and breezy nights.
And I did, for about two nights, anyway. Afterwards, the sky became less and less happy and much more akin to Grumpy Bear from the Care Bears. You know, the one that was pouting all the time with rain clouds on his tummy. And then, precisely on the first day of hurricane season, it started to rain nearly every day. Which would’ve been fine for me, because I wasn’t going to get wet. I had a place to live, after all.
But then a drop of water started falling down. I ignored it at first, since I thought that maybe I was just hallucinating or that it was temporary. But then it got more and more persistent. And then some friends joined the party. And before I knew it, I was in one of those teen movies were the protagonist invites three people to the party, and instead three towns worth of kids showed up. Except instead of kids, it was constant and incessant leaking from the roof.
So I did the obvious thing and mentioned it casually to Rico.
“Hey Rico, here’s this month’s rent. By the way, the roof is leaking.”
“Oh, is it? Gosh darn it, I’ll have that fixed for you in a jiffy.”
So I let him do his work and seal the roof or however it is you stop water leaking. But a month came and went, and the leaking was getting worse. I had no safe haven from the water now, resorting to taking cover under the makeshift second floor, along with my Hello Kitty TV and Xbox. I couldn’t use the furniture, my bags got ruined, and my portable closet was barely able to protect my clothing. Now, instead of an apartment, I was actually getting a swimming pool. I brought it up again to the landlord.
“Uh Rico, the roof is still leaking. What happened?”
“Well, as it turns out, I’ve actually been tryin’ to fix that roof since I built it, and darn it, there’s just nothing doin’ to fix it.”
Now that I had a swimming pool to live in, I figured things couldn’t get any worse. I mean, at least now I could use adorable animal floaters for beds. And there couldn’t be anything else wrong with the place.
Since I was now renting a pool instead of an apartment, I’d taken to living on the second floor Because of my impromptu move, I started being able to concentrate a bit better. I was making it to my jobs on time, and I was doing research for getting into law school. Every now and then, I’d do a bit of writing. Things were certainly looking up for me.
One night, I got back late from work, since one of my jobs had me working night shifts. I was tired, it’d been a long week, and the next day was finally going to be my first day off in two weeks. So I figured I’d get myself something to drink and a snack. After pouring myself some juice, I opened the cabinet to find something to eat.
Instead, a rat came out to greet me. Sniffing a little in the air and deciding that shit was going down, he made his escape. I screamed for a minute, then spent the night sleeping in the car.
The next day, I got my significant other to come over and check the place. Apparently the rats had decided they liked my snacks and ate every last thing in my cupboards. And, from the looks of it, they’d been in and out of the area for a long time. So it turned out that Rico was wrong when he told me I’d be the only person in the apartment. I was actually sharing living space with several other tenants. They just happened to be filthy, disgusting and a bunch of freeloaders.
That same day, I made my way to Wal-Mart to buy some Tupperware for my food and some new plates, since those rats were definitely no longer allowed to eat my food. And I figured it still couldn’t be all that bad yet. This swimming pool was still a bargain! It was eating my nerves alive, but it was the best thing $300 could buy! And I was sure Rico was going to help make it all better. He hadn’t really failed me yet, since the roof wasn’t entirely his fault.
A few days later, I decided to have a chat with Rico about my whole roommate and pool situation. I figured I’d let it slide long enough. And I figured that if Rico at the very least knew about the situation, he’d do his absolute best to make it all better.
“Say, Rico, do you have a minute?”
“Oh sure, what’s the matter?”
“Well, I just wanted to thank you first for letting me rent such a fine swimming pool. I love having my own mosquito nest!”
“Uh, yeah sure-”
“But see, it seems like you didn’t tell me that I’d be having a roommate or three.”
“I’m not sure I follow-”
“It looks like the apartment has been infested by rats. Rats, I tell you! Now how could that possibly happen? Any chance you can fix that for me?”
“Well hun, the thing is, those critters aren’t from this place. They’re from the neighbors! So I can’t do much more than set a mouse trap or two.”
“Can’t you just, I don’t know, fumigate the place? Or whatever it is landlords do?”
“Nope, sorry. Not a damn thing I can do. Just enjoy your stay hun! ‘Sides, there ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of, they’re just tiny little critters. Hello?”
Long story short, I basically spat in his face, told him that he could go die in a pool of critters, and moved out a week later. It took emptying my entire bank account, but I think I was happier being broke than tolerating Rico Suave for any longer. And I didn’t even bother saying goodbye, I just left the keys on one of the tables. Rico did try calling me for a few days, and left a voicemail asking if I’d moved out. I called back and said no, because I still wanted the swimming pool.
I went back a month later with the full intention of fire bombing the place, but then decided that it would’ve been a waste of money. So here’s hoping no one else has had to move into that godforsaken place just for money’s sake. A pool, some gross roommates and a jerk for a landlord are never worth it.
@4 months ago
#article #apartments #from hell mostly
I don’t think any articles are coming up this week. I started a new job which takes up a lot of writing time. Rest assured, that doesn’t mean this blog is now an afterthought or anything of the sort. But I do have other things occupying my mind space.
I am sorry, and here’s hoping my regular writing will come back soon.
@3 months ago
#adminstrative #whoops
I don’t think a lot of people are reading the articles I’m writing and posting (I could be wrong!), but VERY GENERALLY SPEAKING, I assume most governments work. Or, at least, pretend to work. Or that they at least say, “okay, we’re evil and corrupt, but no bullshit for you guys.” I don’t know, since I’ve only ever lived in three different countries in my life so far.
But there are always telltale signs that are big signs telling you to just abandon ship. For a point of reference, I’ve mentioned that I currently live in Puerto Rico. My family is from this country too. And there are things, little things, which tell me that I definitely need to just get out before the whole thing sinks.
Here’s a small story that occurred to me recently (today, even). Sometimes, to secure employment or to study, we have to get a certificate from a police station establishing our good standing in society (not running prostitute circles, et al). Nowadays, it’s perfectly possible to get this online without the hassle of going to a station, mainly because if you’re outside the city, it usually takes a week to process. However, my latest job required that I get the certificate directly from the station, because of reasons.
I shrugged and figured, sure, okay, I need this job and it (so far) seemed like a decent one. And last I checked, I wouldn’t be more than twenty minutes in and out, because the station just takes your information and prints the certificate in front of you. But oh, how wrong and naïve I was to even hope for such happiness.
When I arrived, I encountered my first obstacle: no parking. You’d think that at the island’s general police station, the headquarters of police officers for an entire country, there’d be parking. Oh, there is, but it’s all for “official” vehicles. Sure. So I parked inside a school that was right next to the station, because no one told me I couldn’t. After I reach the police station, there’s a sign that states that debit cards are not accepted. Fine. I get some money from the ATM outside the door, and not even taking three steps inside the building, I’m told that there’s no one available selling stickers. Just so you know, a certificate costs $1.50, which is paid by way of buying stickers indicating the amount, which you stick on your application.
Anyway, there’s a window specifically to sell stickers, and no one is there. No, stuffing another employee there is apparently not allowed. But, I could cross the street and buy these stickers from a guy at a hot dog stand. Cool. After making sure not to get run over by all the moving traffic and whatnot, I finally go to buy the stickers. Except the guy is charging an extra dollar for the privilege of buying these stickers. So I paid out $2.50. Okay. Well, now that I had the stickers, I headed back to the station.
Fortunately, the area processing the certificates was almost empty, so that meant I wouldn’t have to make a long line. After filling out the application and sticking those godforsaken stickers on them, I handed it over to the person at station #5. Now, keep this in mind. There are 8 stations for us to go to. Of those 8, five have people. Of those five, one is tasked with handing out the printed certificates, and one isn’t doing anything. And one, the one who took my certificate, didn’t come back for another forty minutes. The other two were doing their job: calling people and processing their certificate.
But, I had no reason to fret. I’d have my certificate in five minutes and I’d be out of here. By the way, at some point, they did drag someone to open the window selling stickers. Maybe there was a change in corporate rulings! Anyway, minutes just crawl by as everyone who came before me and everyone who was coming after me got their certificates. And, by the way, I’m standing, because the person tasked with giving the printed certificates can’t speak loud enough when announcing the names.
Finally, forty-five minutes later, one of the several people still at the window (because now that a long line has formed, all the attendants disappeared), realized that I was staring right into their soul. So they called me forward, confirmed my information, and printed out the certificate. So something that should’ve taken a minute took a full hour.
Now, here’s the thing. When a department or government is short on people because that’s just how it is, you can tell. And you know that it’s not really quite their fault if they’re just not that many people. But when a department goes out of their way to make what’s supposed to take twenty minutes take a whole goddamn hour, that’s when you can confirm that the ship’s got leaks. And by leaks, I mean giant gaping holes designed to flood everything.
And here’s the thing. During my short stint not working for about a week, I desperately tried to call the unemployment office where I could open up my case. Of the ten times I called, either I could never get through, the call would get cut off while on hold, or the person who answered would hang up. Just because, for reasons you know. And hold times were easily half an hour, at the very least. And all I, or anyone, wanted to do was to claim unemployment benefits while I looked for a new job. Is it necessary for an employee to hang up? Or for there to be so much hold time?
The worst part is that the sheer apathy of government employees here is only a symptom of a bigger problem: of a government much more concerned with perpetuating generational dynasties while maintaining singular control over the island’s destiny. This, meanwhile, has the even bigger goal of making sure that the money that goes through the government never leaves the bureaucratic nightmare that is having staffs within departments within departments.
So that’s probably why the police department building looked run down. That’s definitely why the Medicaid building is definitely run down. That’s why all schools get at the beginning of a new year is a coat of paint and bam, done, time to start class. And that’s when you know that as much as you wish for something to move, something to change, or for you to be able to instigate change, it is downright impossible. Because beyond being a special report or an occasional front cover of a newspaper, people have accepted this situation in their core as acceptable. People are passively accepting deteriorating conditions, money embezzlement and corruption because, “that’s just how it is.”
Therefore, as much as I’d like to change things here, I realize that there’s no moving a mountain. So here’s to me trying to abandon ship as fast as possible.
@3 months ago with 1 note
#government #puerto rico #this shit's messed up
I might not have enough employment experience to actually fill out a decent resume, but I think at this point I can definitely write a couple of pages on my personal misadventures in the working world. Let’s start with my most recent job interview.
I quit my last job, at a call center, generally out of frustration. Despite the job being wholly temporary, to the point that it was at the actual job agency, no one would budge to let me leave early the two days I had class in the week. Clock out time was 6pm. I start class at 6pm. And it was genuinely impossible for them to give me leeway on just those two days to leave at five. So I said fuck it and left. The job became a situation that needed far too much effort for too little a reward, and believe me there will come a time in life when a paycheck means little compared to what you want out of your work.
Of course, not having a new job lined up, I had to scramble a little looking for places to submit a resume to. By my last day at my job I ranked up four different interviews. So at least I felt a little less like an Occupy Wall Street failure since people still seem to want to employ me. But I definitely wasn’t prepared for the interview that just hit me.
My major in college was mass communications, with some public relations sprinkled on top. Sadly, I have been completely unable to secure a job anywhere in the industry since I must’ve screwed something up somewhere in life and missed some important information. It’s not from lack of trying though, and I’m definitely not gunning for presidency or executive positions. I’ve just been looking for assistant and assistant of assistant positions. And there’s just nothin’ doin’.
So I saw a position along these lines on a job search website, and sent my resume. They responded, stating I didn’t have the experience they were looking for but asked for an interview regardless. The stark honesty and the fact that they actually replied to my email felt strange, but I figured, why not. Worse comes to worse, it could be a pyramid scheme and I would just get up and leave.
As I was walked into the office, which thankfully didn’t take long to find thanks to Google Maps, I notice that this is a man whose been in the mass communications industry for a long time. The first thing I immediately notice is his diploma from a Colombian university, in mass communications, along with a bunch of certifications. Here was someone who knew what the fuck he was doing. And he wanted an interview with me?
After some chitchat over my pathetic work experiences, he looks up at me and tells me, flat out, “If I give you a blank magazine to organize and make, you won’t be able to do it. You just don’t have the experience.” Despite this statement being blatantly obvious, I was taken aback over the fact that he bothered to say it. I can’t tell you how many times an interviewer won’t just say this. They’ll conduct the interview, smile, and say they’ll be in contact. When I followed up a few days later, they’d simply say, “Sorry, you don’t have the qualifications.”
And being served with such honesty, I decided to return the favor and be equally honest. I admitted my only good experience in the field was an internship. I pointed out that I was studying my postbachelor’s to have a better fighting chance at a job. I stated that I sent a resume for the position solicited because I couldn’t find any other way to get anything, not even internships, in the field here. Every venue, I said, just felt like a locked door. It’s the biggest catch-22 of our time: every job asks for experience, but none of them are willing to give you the experience. No one has time anymore, or money, or the willpower.
So after the interviewer stating that school and the real world are two very different things (which, believe me, my college tried their damndest to get through our skulls), he shifts the topic ever so slightly. He states that acquiring the skills needed to write good, concise articles required time, and that he certainly wasn’t going to have the time to edit articles so they would be. For some reason, my shit filter, the one that prevents me from insulting people and from getting into jail, shut off before the interview. Because before I knew it, I blurted out, “But I can do that. I can do that pretty well, actually.”
The interviewer paused what he’s saying for a minute, and stared straight into my eyes. Not quite caring about the consequences of my words, I looked right back at him. After a bit, he arched an eyebrow, leaned forward, and said, “Prove it.” After giving me a piece of paper and a pen, he sets the rules: 400 words about why anyone should visit Puerto Rico and skip the clichés at 1pm, about three hours away.
I thought about it for a second. This guy could clearly see and recognize the inexperience. And I just put my foot in my mouth and blurted out something, even though I only said what I felt was true. Despite everything that’s ever gone wrong so far concerning jobs and a career, I knew I could write very well, in both English and Spanish. I’m not perfect, but writing was truthfully something I’d spent a considerable portion of my life perfecting. I wasn’t bluffing my way; I just said what I thought was true.
I nodded, and said, “You know what? I’ll do it.” We shook hands on the deal, and I left, ready to race home to prove to someone that I could do something well. Or more like prove something to myself maybe.
So I did write the article. And I did submit it, an hour before the cutoff time. And while I’ve been taken under consideration for a practice position, I’ve yet to hear back. But I don’t think the point is whether I get a job or a practice thing out of it. The point was probably more along the lines of, when you’re given a chance to prove yourself, then you take that shit and go running. Can’t say I didn’t go running.
@3 months ago
#jobs suck #so do bachelor degrees
I’ve been a staunch Windows user since it was actually called MS-Dos and didn’t have a pretty screen to look at. In fact, I can recall my dad plunking down money on an Apple computer back in 1992, deciding it was terrible after using it for a day, then promptly getting a Tandy. Those were all the rage back in the day. And think of the graphics on Commander Keen! However, about a year ago, I determined that I needed something solid and powerful to get my creative works done. I also figured that I needed something that screamed hipster, except how can you be a hipster if you weren’t there first? Anyway, my dad decided to go crazy and help, and I got myself a 15” MacBook Pro.
I’d be lying if I said I hated this thing. I actually came to really like it, once I pressed pause on my Apple Hate Machine. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to more than a few potholes getting there. Like what? Well…
The fact that closing a window doesn’t close the application
If you’re like me, you know that when you close the last window of any application open on Windows, it’s going to close the application. So once you’re done with Photoshop and your eight Firefox tabs filled with pitchforks and unicorns, all you do is close the windows and you’re done. It’s pretty straightforward and it prevents your computer from catching fire an hour later once you decide to fire up Word, another browser and whichever video player of your choice.
But this kind of disappears in Mac world. Imagine my surprise when I realized that closing a window left the application running in the background. I realized this when I “closed” Firefox, only to find my MacBook slowly trying to catch fire 20 minutes later. When I checked what applications were still running in the background, I found that it was Firefox. And it was eating 100% of my CPU.
It also didn’t help that I had no idea how to actually close, or quit, as it’s known in Mac land, applications. Not until a couple of weeks of actually using my completely legit copy of InDesign, and I noticed an option that said ‘Quit InDesign’. Curious, I clicked it. And it was gone. I checked to see if it was still running, and it was completely gone.
Now I have to go through one extra step to close my stuff now. It’s cool. At least I knew how to now. And, once I got used to it, I found that I preferred this. For any application that’s not Firefox, it’s pretty nice to just close a window and keep the app running in the background. It takes less time than just reopening the app, since it’s still there and just taking a nap.
The spinning pinwheel of death
Depending on which version of Windows you have, either have an hourglass letting you know that shit’s gone slow, or it’s an animated blue circle. Depending on how bad things are, the hourglass follows, looking exactly as it has since Windows 95.
Macs, however have a nice pinwheel made of colors and rainbows and death. I mention death because the pinwheel usually points to either the Mac or a specific app’s temporary demise. More often than not, it’s Firefox. (In case you haven’t noticed by now, Firefox doesn’t appear to like Macs.) And at first, since it’s so pretty, you just think it’s some kind of happy surprise, celebrating your birthday early or something.
The feeling gets killed pretty quickly once you realize that your program refuses to budge. The only bright side is that most crashes stay isolated within the program itself and don’t bleed over to the rest of the Mac’s resources. But that’s probably because my Mac is newer. I have used older Macs briefly before, and usually the pinwheel earned its death moniker quite solidly on them by never leaving and being followed by kernel panics
Nothing, however, is worse than that pinwheel turning into a watch. Because since it’s from the older versions of Mac OS, like it’s cousin the hourglass is from older versions of Windows, it probably means that the whole thing is about to crash and just abandon the fuck out of that ship. Also, the watch is useless at telling time. Of course, sometimes you can right-click a program and force quit it (which sounds as pleasant as force murder), and everything settles down like it should. Just be wary when the pinwheel starts to overstay it’s welcome.
The command key is definitely not the same as the Windows key
My MacBook doesn’t have it, but older Macs have a little Apple logo on the Command key. And before owning this, I never really figured out what to do with the button. In fact, I kept thinking it was sort of the same as the Windows key, but each time I’d just get frustrated when I didn’t get a Start menu. And the cycle would just rinse and repeat until I stopped being a dumbass and Googled it.
As Google would tell me, the Command key is actually the equivalent of the Ctrl key in Windows. So it’s Command plus C to copy instead of Ctrl plus C. So since the Command key isn’t bringing down a Start menu, it means I have to stop pressing Ctrl plus whatever to make something happen.
I think that, even worse than the Command key superseding everything, is the weird symbols you get when you start looking up specific shortcuts for programs. Take this one for example:
Is that Hebrew? I’m pretty tolerant of religious cultures, but I don’t see why they need to include Hebrew letters in shortcuts. I had no idea what it meant until I looked it up just now, and apparently it’s the Alt key. But the Alt key shares space with the Option key. So I don’t know which is which. But then there’s this other shortcut:
This is the Control key. Nothing here tells me this is the Control key. If anything, it’s the up arrow. So yes, I did look kind of retarded mashing the up arrow along with a conjunction of random key characters. Oh wait, here’s the up arrow:
Whoops, nope, that’s the Shift key. Fuck you Mac.
There is no Start menu
Speaking of Start menu, there is none. There’s nothing to take you to a centralized menu of programs you can access. Instead, you have a constant menu hanging at the top of the screen. It’s sort of weird at first, because it feels like you’re constantly running some program, when really it’s just the Mac being a Mac. Most of the options there are useless and can be done through a convoluted keyboard shortcut, but it just turns into your average menu once you have something open.
To actually find programs, though, you either open the Application folder under the Go menu, or you use the Dock, where you can put your most used apps. If you have Snow Leopard, you can put the Application folder in the Dock, it’s a little easier to access the rest of your programs.
Apple, however, must not be satisfied with these options to access programs, and I’m with them. For whatever the reason, accessing applications on Mac feels slightly more tedious than in Windows, and I’m guessing it’s the lack of a little Windows logo on the keyboard. I’m not sure. So I would guess that Apple would do the same thing and put a little Apple key somewhere in their piano black keys.
Instead, they glanced at a nearby iPhone, and decided to make an app that would display your applications and essentially turn the Mac screen into a giant iPhone screen in Lion Except there’s no touch screen and it looks really silly. If I want iOS on my Mac, then I would find a way to hack it in there. Apple, please look for a real solution that doesn’t involve stuffing a phone in a computer. And actually, that’s why I haven’t bothered upgrading to Lion yet, because it’ll feel like I’m upgrading my Mac to be a giant iPad.
Macs are just plain weird
By now, I’m definitely used to using this demon machine. Right now I have four Spaces open, each one with something different. I’ve got one Space with Photoshop and InDesign open, and I have another one with all my Word documents (where the magic happens) And I’ve mastered this track pad like it’s a dance floor. But there was a feature, if you can call it that, where if your little mouse arrow hits a corner, unicorns pop out.
Actually, random stuff happens. One time, my cursor found its way top right corner, and suddenly widgets. There was this nice clock and the weather, which was helpful because I had no idea that it was actually sunny while the rain poured outside. My bottom right corner made the windows hide in horror. I already knew how to do this with my track pad, but when I accidentally moved the cursor to that corner, I actually kind of jumped when they all fled from my wrath.
Another thing that’s weird is the keyboard. It’s backlit, which is actually a really nice feature. It’s one of those things you don’t miss, at least not until you realize you can see your keyboard at night and then holy shit this is amazing. But strangely, sometimes the backlight won’t turn on. Or other times, it won’t let me turn it off. It’ll just stay shining like that, despite it being 3 in the afternoon. And it doesn’t matter if I show the keyboard that the sun is, it insists I live in a bear cave (though I never said that wasn’t true).
So yes, I do love my MacBook. I am aware, though, that whenever it does die, I will probably not be able to buy another, mainly because of Apple’s insistence we switch to iPads. Therefore, consider this a sort of time capsule, a brief glimpse where people once got mad at these things called computers. Enjoy.
@4 months ago with 2 notes
#mac os x #macbook #good god some things scared me
There’s been lots of talk about this so-called “Lost Generation”, mostly comprised of early twenty-somethings. When I first heard about it, I thought it had something to do with that show where I thought people got lost, because I don’t watch TV shows. But instead, it had more to do with how twenty-somethings are all graduating with student loan debt and not a lot of good job prospects in sight. And yes, I’m in this shuffle of deadbeats, mainly because I graduated about two years ago and yet my jobs so far have been less than admirable.
Of course, at least I’m working and I’ve managed to not starve to death in my apartment. That must be better than not working and sharing space with hobos. But I never really thought of myself as part of this Lost Generation. Not until I saw that listings on job websites, like Monster, posted entry-level jobs requiring one to three years of experience. But you’ll then notice that you have to have been a recent college graduate. And by my count, more than year of being out of undergrad isn’t being a recent graduate anymore. So either the HR department is looking for non-existent people, or they’re looking for the impossible. Either way, it’s kind of weird.
I am aware, however, of two ways to overcome this seemingly terrible hurdle. Either you could’ve been psychic and realized that this trend would be at full steam in high school, and therefore picked up some terrible internships during college. Or you happen to have extremely good connections that can look the other way when it comes to the amount of experience they were looking for. But both ways seem to be based on mere chance rather than skills.
So what do? From my experience, you beg your friend whose dad is president of whatever company, or you spam your way up that corporate ladder by sending out resumes to every job listing possible. You even send a resume for that job listing asking for janitor clowns. Because you know that when push comes to shove, you’ll be donning that clown makeup and cleaning up other people’s shitty toilets if it means you’ll get your own desk in a year.
But also realize that the fact that internships are the new entry level jobs and entry level jobs are the non-experienced positions is basically companies trying to do away with training. At some point, someone realized that training costs money, and that finding a college kid eager to staple papers for free was too easy. With a lot of companies that are downsizing, merging, or are just plain ceasing to exist, they look for ways to cut costs, and paid training is one of them. So it’s easier to ask for a couple years of experience instead of just hiring you while you have your graduation gown still on. I think it’d be easier if CEOs could get a normal salary, but maybe that’s not how it works, I wouldn’t know.
Another moment of clarity was when it hit me that I haven’t been able to crawl out of the minimum wage bracket. Working for minimum wage is something you can accept while you’re working summer jobs in high school or part time jobs in college. You’re not expecting double-digit salaries or health insurance or a 401k, you just want enough money in your pocket to buy beer. Or ramen, depending on what your stomach is demanding. Or, if you’re me, on Magic the Gathering cards.
But once you graduate, your expectations shift somewhat. You expect a decent position that your degree and menial work experience earned you, along with a salaried paycheck and insurance against your stupidity. It’s what you studied for, and you sure as hell won’t short change yourself for anything else. Your student debt and fancy calligraphy diploma won’t let you, anyway.
I can’t quite say I finished college with that attitude. Being a mass communications student, I kept up with the news fairly often and had a good idea of what awaited me once I stepped out of my dorm room for the last time. I count myself lucky enough to have secured two jobs, a terrible but somewhat dependable car, and an apartment pulled straight out of hell. So at least I had the means to eat, a hunk of metal to get myself from one place to another, and a roof to prevent rain from ruining my Xbox.
But that was two years ago. Since then, I’ve crawled out of minimum wage jobs, straight into several quarters above that minimum. And I gotta say, it’s demeaning as all hell. And I can’t seem to land a job paying more than seventy-five cents above the minimum wage. I’m not sure if it’s the latest conspiracy theory of our governments to purposefully keep us poor, but I think by now I’ve earned my several dollars above the minimum wage job, and I’ve been working since I started college.
Now, I’ll be frank, I had no idea what I was doing when I boarded the college train almost seven years ago. To keep the back-story simple, I was given the choice of either getting whatever job I could find, or continuing my studies at a local university. I picked the latter because the idea of staying with my folks for any longer freaked me out. So I picked out my college ‘cause I sort of liked it. I’d forgotten, however, that I applied as a theater major, because acting was the only thing I felt like I could do at the moment.
After a couple of years, two plane tickets, and a stupid amount of alcohol, I changed to a communications major, since that sounded cool enough. Eventually, I came to actually like the field, so I guess the amount of alcohol I ingested to get there wasn’t a waste after all. When I think about it, plenty of people go through college never really figuring out what they like and just settling on something just for the hell of it. So in that regard, I guess I was lucky.
I wish, however, that would make finding a job in my field easier. And it’s not like I haven’t landed interviews for positions, because I have. It’s been the same scenario: someone who graduated with a communications major, with a little experience, bilingual and good writing skills. Oh, oh, me, pick me dammit I’m right here you assholes! But I never get the position. Instead, someone twice my age does, with twice the experience and only sort of bilingual. And it’s fucking frustrating as shit.
On the other hand, at least I’ve landed interviews. I can’t imagine how much more difficult it would’ve been if I’d stuck it out with theater. My two major options would have been to become a teacher or a college professor, unless I continued studying in the U.S. or had gigantic breasts. And I don’t want to know what it’s probably like for people with other majors like general art or philosophy. Don’t get me wrong, I’m most definitely against monetizing higher education for the sake of just finding a job. But Jesus Christ why is Monster filled with fucking sales positions?
It’s worse because simple sales positions now require unneeded amounts of education and experience. And not just sales positions but pretty much things like working at call centers or door-to-door sales require you to have either an associate’s degree or a bachelor’s now. It’s even funnier (and by funnier, I mean I want to gag myself) when some call center positions ask that the person have a degree in communications. Wow! All my preparations to be a kickass PR agent, and I’ll get that dream job of talking to people on the fucking phone all day, every day!
I mean, honestly, how much education does anyone need to answer or make phone calls? I get the need to have a high school degree, but college graduate? At this rate, by the time I finish law school they’ll be requiring doctorates for sales positions.
Not counting work-study and my stint at Disney Store while I was getting drunk in Chicago, my first job here was with the tourism department of the local government. The only reason I got the job was because it was designed for college students in the first place. It was a shitty job, but I got my twenty hours a week and I made good friends. A year later, I started a stint with a popular gaming retailer (starts with a G, ends with a Go Online You Fool), a job I got purely by acing the interview with sorcery. Subsequent jobs have been a mixture of luck and the employers’ desperation to fill a spot.
And yet, here we have Random Call Center A asking I have a bachelor’s in marketing, two previous years of experience talking to people over the phone while wearing professional clothing, and no dignity left whatsoever. If my call center stints have taught me anything, it’s that all the knowledge you need for these jobs is how to use a Windows computer and how to read. If high school couldn’t teach me that, why would a degree in marketing do that?
For a variety of reasons, I’ve tended to make friends with people of varying ages throughout the years. I do make it a general rule not to judge myself too harshly compared to the people in their 40’s, because I know I’m nowhere near that level of life experience (think of all the alcohol they’ve consumed by then!).
What sucks is logging into Facebook and realizing that your several-years-older counterparts have these cushy jobs at a national newspaper, or as a social media manager (I’m always tickled by the idea of managing the Internet), or as a PR agent at an advertising group. Even worse are the ones making money off their art by becoming professional graphic artists or photographers. And while the ones freelancing do have pretty unstable incomes, at least they’re making money off what they like.
Me? Well, my job goes along the lines of “Hello person, how may I help you murder children today?” I can almost hear the words FAILURE screaming at me in the background.
I’m not exactly jealous of my friends. No, it’s more like this nagging voice that tells me I’m a fucking failure at life, perhaps that so-called quarter life crisis. I mean, on one hand, I can’t get a job in what I studied, and on the other, finding ways to make money off the art of writing (ha) seems to be akin to converting water into wine. There’s just no way, and I won’t look half as kickass as Jesus in a beard.
I guess what all of us Losters (not to be confused with our counterpart, the lobster) need to remember is that we’re just unlucky as all fuck. We just happened to be born on precisely the wrong year, and that the only way to make up for it is to work twice as hard and be annoyingly persistent at fuck at life. Thankfully, I can do both.
I’m sure, however, that I could get more done with a sledge hammer in hand, so stay tuned.
@4 months ago with 5 notes
#article #lost generation #we're all fucked
