Tiffany Rainey

I am poor right now. Like really poor. Like the poorest person that I know.

I’m sleeping in my roommate’s room because I had to sublet mine to make rent. My cell phone has been disconnected for two months. I’m only eating peanut butter and jellies. I can’t really go above 14th Street because I don’t have Metro money. My current daily budget is $3. I have less than $5 combined in my checking and savings accounts.

All of that is what it is. I have a tendency to swing from extremely rich to extremely poor pretty swiftly. Its part money management, part free-wheeling lifestyle choices. I’m sure if I just committed myself to waking up at a decent hour and sitting behind a boring desk from nine to five then I would be in a much different financial place. But, alas, I can’t. Le sigh.

So, last night I got into an email exchange with a cute-ish boy on OkCupid. He invited me to drinks. I replied that I was too broke, maybe in a week or so. He was cool with that but could we talk on the phone until then? Then I had to break the news that I don’t currently have a phone because I am THAT broke. He took it in stride, I think. He sent me his number so I could hit him up when I do so that’s something.

All of this got me to thinking, should I be ashamed of how poor I am? And why is my initial reaction always to pretend that I’m better off than I am? I obviously didn’t do that with this guy but that’s only because he’s merely cute-ish and he’s on the internet so he kind of doesn’t exist. If it had, say, been the crush of my life then I definitely would have been singing a whole different song. I would’ve dug deep in my bag of Rich Living tricks for some Smooth Operator moves and brilliant bohemian excuses.

I guess the shame of being poor comes from feeling like a failure at the American Dream and Capitalism. I’m obviously not a failure at the American Dream because you can’t fail at a dream given its aspirational and more of a feeling than anything else. I’m all about the American Dream. I AM THE AMERICAN DREAM. (Or, at least I will be when I get some real, actual money.)

I am, however, a big, fat failure at Capitalism. I hate it. I don’t understand money no matter how hard I try to wrap my head around it. I understand needing things and sometimes even just wanting things but I really don’t get how to make money or keep it or why its really such a big deal. I think everything is over-priced, including myself when I work hourly wages, and that supply and demand is such bullshit. It propagates sheep. People only want stuff because other people have it. There is a whole industry dedicated to making people want/need things because other people have them. I know because I work in it. It is so very stupid and annoying. Capitalism works best for the creators of products or goods that are popular, which usually means easy to understand and mainstreamed to mass market. WHY DO PEOPLE ALL WANT THE SAME THINGS AND TO BE EXACTLY THE SAME? I. just. don’t. get. it.

People that don’t care about creating something dumbed down enough for a large majority of people to understand and covet don’t do well in Capitalism. People that can’t even understand how sheep think really don’t stand much of a chance. I’m so bad at understanding what drives the masses that I often see real shit and think its an ironic joke. Like when people were reading (I guess still are?) that Shades of Grey shit (I think that’s what its called). I thought people were reading it to make fun of it or because they were on some kind of personal anthropological journey into the sexual psyche. But, nooo, they were reading it because that’s what they secretly (not so secretly anymore?) want in a relationship/life. I’m just dumbfounded. You should see me when I encounter certain outfits in an airport or other public place that isn’t comprised of just my immediate crew. I mean, do these people not get the same fashion magazines that the rest of the world does? How the hell did that translate the pages of Vogue into THAT? 

Now I’ve gone off on a tangent that anyone who knows me in real life has heard about a million times. I guess the moral of the this story is that I should just own up to living on a different financial plane than everyone else and be happy that I’m not dumb even if I am poor. So stop making me feel bad that I’m not just like you and that I don’t want an iPhone.*

*Even though you know I’ll be getting one shortly because Capitalism doesn’t really leave room for having anything else and still being a viable asset in the workforce/life. I hate touch screens. FUCKING BULLSHIT.

If I had Instagram: Vol 1

I’m working my way through the seasons of Vampire Diaries then this news comes from my hometown. Draw your own conclusions about what I’m thinking. The condition of the body suggests foul play?! WTF.

Kind of crazy because I know this area so well. When I was a child I spent a decent amount of time at Holiday Park. There was this couple, Paula and Boyd, that owned a motel of sorts out there. Its pretty much all there is in this little patch of forest that has somehow earned its own name. The motel was one of those long strips of rooms constructed of concrete blocks and painted in an off-white color. It had real keys on those 50s-style plastic key chains with the logo. There was a basketball court with cracked asphalt. It was totally off the set of Supernatural but without the awesomely kitschy interior decor. (I know, I know. Me and supernatural teen dramas. Blame Buffy and my downward spiral into adolescence.)

The place primarily catered to hunters and the couple even made their own buck lure (look it up…gross) that was pretty famous. So, in the off-season, my eternally wandering dad routinely took up residence there. I learned to drive my grandparents’ old van on those dirt roads and played about 40 million games of one-on-one on that cracked court. 

I am so surprised that I did not get turned into a Tween Vampire. Seriously, though, sucks that dude was killed. Don’t go into the woods alone with a gun, kids.

I woke up this morning wishing that time didn’t exist. There’s always some issue with it. Everyone hates you because you’re not on time; you hate yourself because you forget the time and miss something; you meet the most amazing person but its the wrong time; you can’t do that awesomely amazing thing you want to do because you don’t have time. Its bullshit. Must we really boil our lives down to these finite little numbers that in the end don’t really mean anything?

I suppose, if you want to argue, you can say that without time we wouldn’t have much of a civilization. Its organization. Its how we, as humans, accomplish things and connect with other people. We plan our lives around those numbers on the clock and calendar. Most people probably like that sense of order. It probably helps them feel in control when, let’s be honest, none of us are. Do you know what would happen if all the clocks stopped? A lot of confusion amongst those most tightly tethered to the system but then…absolutely nothing. No one will die.* We will all be okay. Swear to God.

And, besides, does time even matter any more now that we have Real Time? We’re basically all connected to each other all the time through social media, cell phones and the internet so is there really and truly a need to plan everything and slap a very specific number — that is often interpreted arbitrarily, by the way — on it? Noooo.

Imagine you’re throwing an event of some sort. Let’s say an art opening. In today’s time-obsessed world you’d pinpoint some specific day and time then send it out to a billion people then obsess over getting everything done by deadline to the point where the result may end up kind of sub-par then you’ll be dashing about day-of only to arrive and find that most of the billion that swore they’d be there have completely forgotten or stumbled upon something that otherwise engaged them more. That is the shitty scenario that happens nearly always.

Now, take away the specifics of time. You make your art and take as long as you need to perfect it and set it up somewhere. When its all ready you send mass communications to everyone on the planet that might care. You tell them you are showing your art and there’s no need to intone, “Now!” because everything is Real Time so they already know. People come. They didn’t have time to forget and you didn’t have to remind them twenty times because the opening didn’t even exist that long ago.

But, without planning everything, won’t people be busy and not come? No and yes. The people that were too busy to attend back in the days of setting everything to a clock will still be too busy because they obligate themselves to too many people and things. People that get 500 inboxes a minute they take seriously are always going to be busy doing something and most likely be doing it very half-assed because they’re stressing over where they have to be next. Fuck those people. They can’t be helped. Less frantic people will not be busy because there’s no longer constraints on time. They have work but they do it as it comes. They have other offers but they’re not beholden by promising way ahead of time so they can chose what to do when it comes.

:: PAUSE while I rush off to take a drug test that I have 24 hours to complete even though the facility is 30 minutes away and is only open 6 of those hours. EXACTLY WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT. ::

So, now you want to argue that that this scenario only works when it comes to social events? Again, nooo. Ever heard of Crowd Sourcing? Its this little thing where you create something from a lot of willing people out there on the Interwebz. Most all jobs should and could be crowd sourced. Say you own an office and you need a report done and maybe the kitchen cleaned. You build a database of all people skilled for the jobs (which takes a week or so of initial interviewing), send out an email when you realize you need it, get responses, assign the work, wait for it to come in. Its an easy as that. Not only do you take away all the stress of having to rely on someone to show up at a certain time on a certain day but you also don’t have to pay someone to sit around waiting for you to need something. Workers can also pick and choose what they want to do and when. Everybody wins.

If I wasn’t the type of person that has zero concept of time, I wouldn’t be writing this. I already live my life in this way to a great extent but its pretty much in odds with the rest of the world so I’m constantly beating myself up over disappointing people and it sucks. I suppose the answer would be to get a watch, fall into the single file line, and get on with it. I just can’t seem to do that. Instead I’ll write rambling blog posts like this and hope the whole world changes around me. Such a narcissist. Or, maybe, I’ll figure out a way to see the Gray and devise some plan to operate outside of time successfully while all the other little ants march along in their patterns dictated by time.

*Some people on drip drugs dispensed in time intervals may die if doctors don’t adjust their auto methods quickly and learn to dispense drugs based on when patients actually need them.

There are three types of people: Rich Forevers, Formerly Riches and Rich Livings. These terms should be pretty self-explanatory. I suppose there are also the Poor Forevers and Nouveau Riche but I’m not a fan of either so I will pretend they don’t exist. 

I am Rich Living, formerly of the Moderately Rich. This is a very annoying thing to be, especially when you are surrounded by Rich Forevers and lots of other broke Rich Livings. Rich Forevers can never quite understand why you don’t have money because they don’t really understand money at all. What’s to understand? You just swipe a card and whatever you want is yours. Other Rich Livings vie for prime insider status with Rich Forevers, effectively knocking your hussle. Sometimes, of course, you can team up but two Poors never make a Rich so it doesn’t stick for long.

Living poorly is horrible. You have to make all kinds of sacrifices and pretend they are assertions of your artistic nature and set you free. In keeping with this, you have to occasionally spend money on other poor Rich Livings because, you know, you aren’t really poor. At which time you have to get all mafioso on them under your breath, “You’re paying me back for this, motherfucker,” while smiling through your shiny, white teeth and passing them a Makers on the Rocks in some swanky boutique hotel bar.

Of course, this facade only works as long as you keep just enough money in your account to buy the occasional $15 drink. Only people in movies do things like “forget their card” or sit around stone sober until some random strikes up a conversation and buys them their first drink.

Luckily, there are ways to cut corners that are super chic. Food, for instance, is almost completely unnecessary. Getting super skinny and saving money is like killing two birds with one stone. No brainer. You just have to eat enough that you don’t pass out cold somewhere awkward. A spoonful of jam here and there accompanied by the occasional split entree at brunch should do the trick just fine.

Rent is a little more tricky but totally manageable. The idea is to live somewhere that is totally decrepit and dangerous (therefore cheap) but close enough to everything that Afters at your place isn’t out of the question. They make whole neighborhoods for this, like Alphabet City, South Williamsburg, and Harlem. Living in one of these places will make you look mad cool even though you are really just mad broke.

Free intoxicants are easy for the Rich Living. In fact, its pretty much the cornerstone of the entire socioeconomic class. I could detail some ways to snag free drinks and drugs but it would all be for naught. Either you’re born with it or you’re not. If you’re not, you’re not a Rich Living and should never aspire to be. Best to move back to Middle America or join the Worker Bees.

By far the most difficult aspect to manage as a Rich Living are the unnecessary necessities. As a Rich Living you are undoubtedly used to having nice things and its the smallest of things you find you can’t live without. The longer you were Rich before becoming just Rich Living, the harder it is. Target clothes just don’t cut it when you’re used to wearing labels and there is simply no way that drugstore shampoo can ever get your hair as sleek and shiny as it needs to be for you to live. Well-meaning Forever Riches and particularly enterprising Rich Livings will occasionally give you exquisite things but it only acerbates the situation. Now you’re addicted to expensive dish soap as well.

When you get so broke that you can’t afford the unnecessary necessities, its time to make some tough decisions. You basically have two choices: Land a rich boyfriend/husband immediately, or, get a job that supplies you with these things. Getting a job that earns you money to buy these things is not really an option because, as a Rich Living, you don’t expect to actually buy things.They’re supposed to be given to you. Anything in the fields of publishing, public relations, or marketing usually does the trick. You can also start scouting sponsorships from the brands that you require most but this is much more time-consuming and tougher in a struggling economy. It requires building an entire brand around yourself and, honestly, its easier to leach off someone else’s brand. That said, some Rich Livings just aren’t built for jobs at all and must do this to avoid a life devoid of all happiness.

When all else fails, one must simply disappear to their “country home” (parent’s house) to de-stress and simplify their life. Never mind that Rich Livings have no job or responsibilities to stress about. Being put-upon by too many social obligations and hangers-on then constantly complaining about it is part of the lifestyle. During this time away, the Rich Living will pretend to be making great strides in becoming a self-supporting adult when they are really just laying by the pool every day drinking wine from the house collection. They will eventually return to the city with enough pocket money and wonderfully elaborate plans that make for great party banter but never materialize to last them through the next season.

Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted a harem. If you’d ask me at 16 what my life would be like now, I’m sure I would’ve told you that I was rich, traveling the world, with a different man for every city. I’ve faring pretty well in the travel department and totally striking out when it comes to money. As for men, well, I have a different one for every day of the week if I want and that’s about as close to one for each city as you can get when you have a lease. According to my 16-year-old self, I’m not too far off track.

The thing is, I’m kind of getting tired of juggling so many men. It’s exhausting and, to be quite honest, it’s not really all I thought it would be. Sure I can throw a mini-tantrum and point to the door whenever one of them says something annoying or I feel like going out when they feel like staying in. And, sure, I can order my men like take-out depending on the mood I’m in that evening. It’s all very liberating in a surface kind of way. I’m always in complete control of the situation and there’s a big part of me that needs that. I like to back away whenever things get intense and never fully committing to any one person allows me to do that. I never have anything to bitch about, really, because I rarely let things get to the point where they bother me.

It all sounds wonderful and the whole situation works perfectly with my commitment issues. But, I’m sitting here tonight in the middle of nowhere completely exhausted realizing that I’m not really doing anything but stalling. I’m not some superhuman that doesn’t need love or a stable relationship. I’m not even capable of being as cold-hearted as I purport. I get attached all the time. I just never admit it. I get so attached that I keep everyone around instead of just making one little choice. I’d rather cobble together my perfect man from a handful of tragically imperfect ones than deal with the fact that one day I’m going to have to sacrifice even the tiniest part of myself to make another person happy.

Apparently I’d rather have the guy that completely adores me that I’m not physically attracted to take me out on the town with his friends. Then have the completely irresistible guy come over late night and leave before dawn. Then lunch with the guy who makes me laugh. Then have dinner with the guy who can talk to me all evening about books and architecture. And, maybe if I’m bored with all that, I’ll find the guy that I rage with until sunrise before we fall into bed together stupidly drunk and falsely smitten. When one of these guys stumbles or tries to change the game, I switch up the roster. I am like Frankenstein, my ultimate creation being The Perfect Man.

I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to call my sister and say, “Uggh. [Insert Name] is driving me insane! This morning he left before I woke up and now he won’t answer the phone so I don’t know if I should get dinner or wait for him.” I want to be annoyed by a man. Then I want to make up and walk down the street holding hands or something equally stupid and girly. I want to plan the little parts of my life around someone else for a change. I want to see someone smile because I thought of them. Hell, I wouldn’t mind even having the wherewithal to actually text someone that I was thinking of them instead of the nonchalant bullshit that currently fills the outbox of my phone. I think I finally want a real, live boyfriend.

I’m pretty sure about this right now but this could be like the time I was jealous of all my friends with jobs and really, really wanted a cubicle. I built one in my living room, filled it with pictures and stupid desk shit, sat it in for about a week, and then realized I hated sitting in boxes. I have been marginally unemployed ever since. This could also be about the fact that I just watched a chick flick where all the girls went to South Hampton with deliciously fancy boys on the weekend and wore chic little skirt suits to meet in parks and stores while they were supposed to be at work during the week. Maybe I just need to upgrade my wardrobe from skinny jeans, tennis shoes, and ripped up t-shirts.

Or, maybe I just need to go to sleep now.

I dreamt of Joe Paterno. This wouldn’t be so strange if I’d followed the case or even really knew what happened in the end but I didn’t and I don’t. I have no idea what he looks like. I do know he was a coach and they removed his statue. The photographs of its removal reminded me of great political upheavals – Lenin, Stalin, Hussien – and also of the Iron Horse. I’m always thinking about that horse. They also made me think of the word, ‘topple.’ Go figure.

Anyway, I distract myself. I guess the dream was really about my grandfather more than anything. He was following the Paterno trial. He believed he was innocent. This isn’t too far off of the truth of what probably would have happened had my grandfather still been alive. He was a coach, a pretty famous one at that. He supported other coaches and other players always.  When OJ Simpson went to trial for murdering Nicole Brown, we watched every last second at my grandparents’ house where I was living. We bought all the tabloids. Oh course, OJ was innocent. I did my Black History Month report on OJ, huge fold-out poster board and all. Let’s just say it was awkward.

In the dream, I believed Paterno was innocent too. There were a lot of us. I ended up publishing a book about it after meeting with him several times. But, it wasn’t the actual events of the dream that have left it lingering. It was the feeling. We were a team and we were loyal. Fiercely loyal. My grandfather was this way. I never saw him waver even a little when defending those closest to him. Not when my brother was kicked out of his middle school basketball for nailing an opposing team member in the face with the ball. Not when my father was arrested for chasing him down the street with a knife after my grandmother’s funeral. He’d been in the Navy. He’d played baseball and basketball at the University of Georgia. He’d coached dozens of teams over the, probably, 40 years he was head of Stone Mountain Gym. He was as close to the movie stereotype of a coach as you could possibly get. And, in my dream, I think that’s why he supported Paterno. That guy was obviously fucked up and did horrible things but, judging by the supporters he had, he’d once been a good guy or at least a good coach. I guess. Like I said, I didn’t follow it all that much. Stories about an old man molesting young boys doesn’t really do it for me.

Lest you think this was all about my grandfather, it wasn’t. I dreamed about a lot of other weird people that I haven’t seen in ages. Like Jim Rosenquist, whom I think I was making out with in a car at my old apartment complex. What is that? I’m not even remotely attracted to old men. I was even grossed out in my dream. Then I came to my mother’s house and was swimming in the pool when I eased off of my float into the deep end and she flipped out on me. “Don’t do that!” she yelled, “You make me nervous!” She then proceeded to tell me that I needed to be careful because she’d dreamt that I was born “premature with all kinds of misconceptions.”

WHAT?!

I decided to just wake up already. Now I’m about to stomp down stairs and ask my mother what exactly she meant by that. She’s going to say, “Quit being an idiot,” and probably roll her eyes. I love doing shit like this. I think it’s a lot like how the cat inches slowly through my bedroom door waiting for me to yell for him to get out before he ever really makes it in. All attention is good attention.

So, maybe like a week ago I am sitting at home on a Friday night (I detest weekends) lurking online. As one that frequently gets sucked into interweb wormholes of the most mundane nature due to the absolute lack of engaging content online and some weird anthropological tendencies I have toward “normal” people, I unsurprisingly find myself on OkCupid. It is THE place to be online on a weekend evening if you are a loser. Logging in for less than ten minutes guarantees, like, 25 new messages and/or invitations to “drink wine.” Pair that with a couple of Tall Boys from the bodega and its just like being at a bar but you don’t have to get dressed or even necessarily talk to anyone. So meta. And lazy.

I’m wading though my overflowing inbox with my usual shallowness: Facial hair? Uggh! Are those Tevas? Seriously? That dog is licking your face? Nasty! Jersey/Queens? You fucking wish. Oh, you love Salinger, Nietzsche, AND Tom Robbins? Hahahaha! I start to notice that I sure am getting a lot of hits from Indian dudes. And, by Indian, I mean from India or descended from. The ones that now (most likely) live in Jackson Heights/Jersey City and go to med school. You know who I’m talking about. I delete them all automatically. I don’t even read their profiles for grammatical errors or cliches. I’m just not attracted to Indian guys. I wouldn’t necessarily say its a cultural thing. I hang out a with as many Indian guys as I do any other race really but the difference is that I never find myself sneaking off to a Brooklyn loft with them at the end of the night. I just don’t find them physically alluring. Ever.

I am alternately annoyed at how many times I have to check the boxes and hit “Delete Selected” and sort of sad for the guys that maybe spent five minutes hitting me up when they never had any real chance. Maybe I should write something in the “Who I am Looking For” box that encourages them to move along to the next blonde? I mean, its like a public service. They’re wasting my time and I’m wasting theirs. I’m all for efficiency.

I start mentally drafting something Internet-witty. Then, I pause — Am I being RACIST?!? I guess, yes, by definition, I’m making a decision to do or not do something (someone) based on race. That said, how much different is me flat-out saying, “I don’t date Indian guys,” and a man writing on his profile, “I like skinny blondes with blue eyes,” or “My type is petite, raven-haired girls with almond-shaped eyes?” I mean, obviously they’re talking about Caucasians and Asians. Theonlydifference is that they don’t come out and explicitly say it. I don’t really have that option, exactly. Thereissomething about skin with a yellow-ish tone and thicker dark hair that really turns me off but its such a visceral thing that its hard communicate. I mean, I’ve totally been into Arabic guys, Asian guys, and light-skinned African-American guys that all could somewhat be considered to have yellow undertones and thick brows. But not the look that I can visualize in my head but never translate into words. It would be the equivalent of me saying I was into blondes that were kind of dirty blonde but definitely not with those darkish roots that look greasy but with that slight reddish tint that makes the color a little more eclectic and less “bottle” but not that comes with the whole freckles bit or looks like a Middle School Kool-Aid dye job that never really washed out. See how confusing that is? (Aside: That’s a pretty apt description of the actual hair color I’m continuously going for.)

I get into this hyper-intellectual internal Political Correctness/Racism volley with, um, myself. Why am I so unattracted to a certain race of guys when I am a fully intelligent person that KNOWS all Indian men do not have the exact same skin tone/hair nor fall into the same stereotypes? Am I suffering from some kind of genetic colonialism sentiment even though I’m pretty sure no one in my family was ever remotely involved in colonizing India? Does that even exist? Is it so wrong to make a conscious decision to eliminate a group of men from my dating pool because I’m not physically attracted to any that I’ve met or seen in my 30 years? Should I force myself to be attracted to someone for the sake of being “open-minded?” Do I present my inner-quandary to friends or will they label me racist? Do I even care? Do they? Why do men get to specify their type but women always feel bad about doing so? WILL OKCUPID BAN ME FROM THE FUCKING SITE FOREVER MARKING ME WITH AN INTERNET R ON MY CHEST UNTIL THE DAY I DIE?

(If there’s one thing that showGirlsgot right, its that females can over-think the fuck out of things. I mean, seriously, I want to slap some sense intomyselfsometimes.)

All of this then the sun starts to rise signally my bedtime. I am drunk and haven’t decided what is the most acceptable way to get Indian dudes off my virtual back. I do nothing. I think about this whenever my mind wanders for about a week. I read something on Huffington Post about Asian Girl/White Boy couples and zero in on line that says something along the lines of, “eliminating a race from your dating pool is racist.” I ask Twitter if I’m being racist without saying toward whom. I get no response. I write this post that I will probably not link anywhere.

See how much drama you can manufacture for yourself without ever even leaving the house? LIFE IS NEVER BORING.

So I guess they say that if you want different results, you have to do things differently. I think about this a lot and in some parts of my life I do try to change things up. Full-time wasn’t working so I started freelancing. Freelancing didn’t pan out so I went back to full-time. Magazines were slow so I got into marketing. I was treading sand in Miami so I packed up and moved, eventually, to New York. I even stopped drinking once for several months thinking that might turn things around. But, despite all this and probably lots more that I’m not remembering, I keep finding myself in the same place. Not physically or financially but mentally and emotionally. The one thing that I have never changed is my relationship with people and I’m starting to finally realize that maybe that’s the problem with all of it.

At my very core I’m a giving person. I like to help people. I believe in people. I like to see them succeed. I don’t think that in itself is a problem but I do think the way it manifests itself in my life and relationships is. I give too much without ever getting anything in return. Part of this is obviously the type of people always in my life but another, perhaps bigger, part is that I don’t really push for any recompense. I’m never forthright about what I expect to get in return for completely putting myself out there for another person. A part of me thinks it should be obvious. A favor for a favor, right? If I spend days or even weeks trying to help you make a connection or complete a project, it seems like it would only make sense that you’d do the same for me if you saw an opportunity to do so. But, the thing is, I never ask. I give people too much credit. Beneath it all, I expect most people to be intrinsically good. They’re not. People are like dogs — they’ll always take as much leash as they can and they’ll always favor the person with the best treats in their pocket even if it isn’t the one that consistently feeds and cares for them on a daily basis.

I can never change the nature of people but I can try to change myself. I can quit covering the inadequacies of people I work with to the point where I get frustrated, burnt out, and ultimately quit or get fired because I can’t handle it anymore or the person in question starts to fear that they will be exposed or out-shined. I can quit going out of my way to connect people from different circles so they can get funding or participation in their projects only to be ousted from the equation once I am no longer needed to make introductions. I can quit spending hours writing things for people so they can have better opportunities and get better jobs when I don’t even have enough money to feed myself on a daily basis. I can quit trying to be friends with guys that only want to sleep with me even when I tell them I’m not interested. I can quit all of it. I can quit being nice…I think.

I have serious trust issues so it seems like it would be counter-productive to indulge these even more by deciding that the best thing to do is to add another layer of suspicion to all my interactions with people. But, then again, the people that seem to speak out the most about my trust issues are the ones that violate that trust over and over again. Maybe my issues are just an intrinsic understanding of how things really are and internal self-preservation. Maybe they’re only issues to other people. Maybe I’m the type of person that needs these kinds of issues to protect myself from a world that is much more deceitful and selfish than I am.

My mother gave me this little daily devotional book awhile ago that I find myself opening more and more these days. On my birthday, November 18, the lesson is to never do something without expecting a return. The logic behind it is that God wouldn’t want you to waste time planting seeds if you didn’t expect something to grow. He didn’t give man the abilities he did just to see him squander them on fruitless endeavors. It makes sense.

I’m going to quit trying to help other people so much and help myself. That’s the only way I’m going to stop ending up in these situations. If it means that I have fewer “friends” then so be it. Those people aren’t friends anyway. Time, once again, to cut the fat. Moving on…

I started this post with a bunch of, “Cat this and Cat that,” defending her position and explaining it. But, let’s be honest. I can’t defend or explain away what other people do. All I’d be doing is ascribing my own beliefs and ideas to another and that’s bullshit. She did what she did for whatever reason and, honestly, who gives a fuck? The reason people respond to the actions of others is that they see some reflection of themselves, whether its what they are or what they fear becoming. In the end its all about ourselves and anyone who argues that is in denial. We judge others (positively or negatively) because we’re judging ourselves. Its all about Self. Always.

I see a lot of myself in Cat and its something that I’m continuously succumbing to then feeling guilty about. I’ve been compiling entries from the last 10 years on this blog and its basically the same thing over and over — Tiffany thinks jobs are for losers, Tiffany decides she needs to grow up and get with the system, Tiffany gets a job, Tiffany doesn’t fit, Tiffany quits job, Tiffany feels guilty, Tiffany thinks jobs are for losers, ad infinitum. When am I going to just realize that I don’t fit into corporate America? That I can’t live anyone else’s vision but my own?

This isn’t about doing drugs or showing up on time or playing their games. Its about living in your own skin. Cat could’ve gotten sober and started showing up to staff meetings just like I could’ve ignored all my friends and started coming into work 10 minutes early every day but that would’ve lasted only so long. It did only last so long in both of our cases. Because, no matter what efforts we make to be someone else, we’ll always just be ourselves pretending to be something we’re not. Humans are fallible, some more than others. I honestly don’t see anything wrong with that. Maybe Cat only wrote posts once in a blue moon but they were honest, well-written, and they did what they were supposed to do for that website. Maybe I didn’t show up on time every time but I created something that wasn’t there before me and pushed that company far beyond anything they’d ever had. As far as I’m concerned, she performed excellently and so did I. That said, did I know she would eventually get fired and that I would? Of course.