Boss, who on Monday amicably promised to pay me through the end of August, called to say I needn’t bother coming in to work anymore. Then he left for a beach house on the Carolina shore.
Luckily, I found this clip of Oprah discussing The Secret on Larry King:
So, if you think about a book hard enough, you can star in the screen adaptation?
The Secret celebrates The Laws of Attraction, which, despite sounding like a dating handbook written by former debutantes, is actually a new age belief system rooted in quantum physics. The idea is that our thoughts carry energy, and this energy determines our experience. Which is just a fancy PHD way of justifying childhood games of paranoia—“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.” If I believe my mother’s back will really break, will it?
Oprah cried and prayed and got cast in The Color Purple. I don’t want to be in a movie (although I did just submit pictures via Craigslist to do a Sportswear photo shoot) but I would like to get paid to write. If I cry and pray and sing an old evangelical hymn will I get a call to blog for Entertainment Weekly?
Oh I know I’m emitting some low-level negative energy, enough to trigger the security alarm at H&M. But I’m tired. Tired of submitting my resume and cover letter (not even a generic one!) and never hearing back, tired of responding to Editorial Assistant ads full of gross misspellings (Come work in a fst paced environnment). Instead of Oprah inspiring me to focus my thoughts into a light beam of positivism, a smooth jet of hope, I want to jump up and down on her fine Harpo furniture. In muddy Crocs.
Yes, I secured a job in September as a personal assistant, but it isn’t enough to pay the bills. And I don’t have health insurance. There are other laws besides the Laws of Attraction— for example, The Law of Gravity; what am I to do if an air conditioner falls on my head?
Megan and I are getting together this weekend to construct wish boards. I’m sure Oprah would cream all over this idea. Basically, we’ll sit around and drink beer and make collages out of back issues of Jane in an attempt to better visualize and hence actualize our futures. It’s pretty simple what I want: a book in two years, a job teaching or writing, freedom from debt. I don’t need Tivo or a timeshare. Just simple things, really: fresh cut flowers on the kitchen table. I’d like a kitchen table.
If you see me in the next few weeks, and my forehead looks botoxed, it’s because I’m straining under the effort of positive thinking. Can you hire me? I can probably only type 30 words a minute—one-handed, mind you—but they are the right words.