by Jane Etarie
This asshole I used to work with at another job called me Karoshi. Thought it was funny. Like he'd call me it to my face. I didn't know what it meant at first, but it's like Japanese for death by overwork. For serious. They actually work themselves to death so much over there that they made a word for it. The Japanese have got all sorts of words for retarded ways to kill yourself.
And you want to know why I just bought an iphone? Because karoshi. The guys who make the iphones for Steve Jobs in like China or whatever take it very seriously. They are committed to making the best phones possible. It's like the worst thing in the world for them be lazy and make a shitty phone. They do not want to appear foolish in front of Mr. Steve Jobs. To look like a fat lazy retard in front of Mr. Steve Jobs. To take advantage of the good graces and generosity of Mr. Steve Jobs. It would like bring dishonor and shame to themselves, to their good family name, and to the ghosts of their ancestors. Or some shit like that.
Anyways, there was a bunch of losers that like flung themselves out of the third floor windows or roofs of the iphone factory. Like so many of them that they actually for real put nets around all the buildings. Like the pressure to keep up and perform was too much for some to handle. One kid left a note saying he had no capabilities, that he made shitty phones, that he got what he deserved. Another jumped because he got his bonus stolen. I would never kill myself over work. I'd rather quit. I couldn't think of anything more retarded to kill yourself over. But you have to admire the work ethic that goes into these phones.
This is why I also don't mind buying sweat shop products. Fear and desperation and a dream of a better life produce quality results. Like fear of getting fired. Fear of getting burned or beaten. Fear of being sacrificed, your head put in a kiln. Fear of paying your loanshark, so he doesn't sell your ten year old's ass to sleazy tourists. I'm not even making this shit up. Some fat lazy union worker doesn't give a shit if my tv works or not. He's just wondering where he's going to go for beer and hotwings after work. It's true.
And it's like I just don't get it. How many people put that much effort into getting what they want out of life? Like would like risk everything for what was best for them? I mean, I don't know. And I honestly don't care. But whatever. Cycle of life or some shit.
Anyways, the attempted suicide was all anybody would talk about. It was like everyone was so serious, so miserable. Like you couldn't escape it. So I thought it might be kind of funny if I e-mailed memos to the staff. Like a joke. Cheer up the glum idiots. So I wrote this one on like company protocol and best practices for suicide. It was pretty good, I've typed up all sorts of memos.
Dear Staff,
In light of recent events, we at Petrus Cheong and Associates Global want to remind you that due to third party insurance policy issues, suicide for personal reasons is to be carried out off company property and outside of company time.
If the attempted suicide is work related, for reasons such as— but not limited to— lack of productivity, or truency, it is recommended that it be carried out at designated and marked jump windows and not on premesis.
Your assistance in this matter is greatly appreciated.
Thank You.
—Management.
I guess somebody didn't think it wasn't very funny and ratted me out. What a waste of a half hour. So Kim— who is a guy— and Felix and Brooke sit me down in, I don't know, like one of their offices. And they have actual for real papers on company policy and codes of conduct that they want me to read and sign and shit. And I just start bawling, like I'm not even listening it them, and I'm all like, I'm sorry, it's just me and Kameljit are such close friends... we went for lunch together... this is just so weird.
I must have looked like a mess I was crying so much. And then I was going on about how it's just hard because I'm pregnant, how I'm on medication, how I was molested as a child, how I tried to kill myself, how I have body issues.
I was throwing anything at them and they were doing their best to calm me down. Like, It's ok, it's ok, it's not your fault. We're not blaming you... we just need you to be clear on... to understand... company policy. So we're all on the same page going forward. Just read the pamphlet. Sign the policy form... it's no ones fault... this is all just sad and tragic... no one's in any trouble... we just all need everyone to be... clear.
They knew they fucked up and just want to get me out of the office as quick as possible. Management don't want to deal with a psychotic emotional wreck. They hide all day to avoid conflict.
So I kind of get a grip and I apologize again. I tell them how much I enjoy working at Petrus Cheong and Associates Global. How much I appreciate the job that all of them and all of the other managers are doing. And how much I like Kameljit and that I'm sorry— I must be in shock. It won't happen again. I sign their form and grab the company propaganda. And I'm hoping they'll send me home, but they tell me it's ok if I want to go back to work. I wasn't going to push my luck.
But whatever, I didn't care. I just drew moustaches and buckteeth and glasses on the sensitivity training pamphlet crybabies. And then I went on Assbook for the last half of my shift. Monica was talking about her down syndrome kid again, about some race he was going in. Sticking her hat out for donations. Andre was upset some girl didn't like him. Didn't like him or all the weird shit that he was sending her. Couldn't believe she wanted to slap a restraining order on him. And Nancy was busy giving live updates about her day at work. I swear to god that woman's hair is a nightmare. I wish I couldn't see her head from my desk.
Wrong Place, Wrong Time
I got home from work and I was really upset. Robert doesn't say much. Like he doesn't say much to me, but he's a great listener, you know? He'll listen to me talk and talk and talk, and he won't say a word. It's like he'll never start a conversation with me. Like he's a for real strong silent type. You know that when he talks, it's like important.
He's also a real sensitive guy. Like an empath almost? His rivers run deep. He could tell that something was wrong with me. So he stops watching his, I don't know, hockey game? and asks if I'm ok. And I'm wiping the tears away from my eyes and I'm all like, Ya, ya I'm fine... No big deal. Just work.
But he can tell that I'm not ok. And it was just like so sweet. He pats the couch, like for me to come sit by him, and when I do he puts his arm around me and rubs my shoulders. And then he's all like, Do you want to talk about it? What's the matter? And I'm all like, No, it's nothing. Don't worry about it— your game is on. I'm fine. I'm ok.
And he's all like, No, it's ok, it's intermission anyways. Tell me... tell me what's wrong.
So I like tell him about my shitty day at work. How my bosses were mean to me and I'll be so glad when I don't have to go back to that... that hellhole. How everybody hates it there and hates each other and how it sucks and I can't wait until I'm done.
And he tells me that I'm lucky to have a good job. That he's lucky I have a good job. And then he goes on about this game that he plays whenever he has a bad day at work. It's called Wrong Place, Wrong Time. Before that he used to just stare at the mirror and cut his face with a razor.
He says that when he gets angry, he'll just bottle it up. And then maybe on his coffee break or lunch, or whenever he gets a chance, he'll drive somewhere. Or for the last year or so, walk somewhere. And then he'll just stop. Usually when he calms down a bit. Like when his vision isn't so blurry, or when he stops shaking, or stops yelling and swearing at himself. It could be anywhere. A bus stop. A park bench. A DQ parking lot. A high school. And he'll pull the blade out on his knife and hold it in his jacket pocket.
And the next person he sees— it's always got to be an attractive young woman— he'll like imagine abducting her at knifepoint. He'll like throw her in the back of his van. Torture her. Rape her. Beat her. And she'll cry and beg him to let her go, like she'll promise she won't tell the police. Only he has to kill her, because she's seen his face. Usually by strangulation, but sometimes if she struggles, like puts up a fight, he'll stab her with the s
ame knife that she stuck in his side or his leg.
And then he gets all CSI and thinks of ways to safely get rid of the body, like where to dump it, how to speed up decomposition, shit like that. And usually when he gets to that part he forgets what got him so angry or stressed and he already feels better.
And I tell him that his game is fucking disgusting, and that I don't like him thinking of other girls that way. That I'm like really sickened, like real dissappointed. That he'd better stop it and buy some more weed. It's gross. And he totally backpedals and says this is something he did like three, four years ago. That he learned better anger management tools in his court appointed courses. Like Hand of God. Where before you get road rage, you like swat or crush or flick cars with your giant hand, using perspective and your imagination.
I tell him that one sounds better. I might try that one, it sounds like fun. For real— I can't believe how many shitty drivers there are out there.
GOOP
I love Gwyneth Paltrow. I fucking love her. I love GOOP. And I wanted to do something nice for Boo. Like make him dinner. It's seems he's always eating fast food garbage when I get home from work. Anyways, Robert was doing a bit of drywall packing, like under the table, and I wanted to make sure it was ready for him when he got home.
I was reading this recipe for pizza that looks really nice. Gwyneth recommends using a wood burning stove if you've got one. She says that one of the best things she's ever done is build a wood burning stove in her backyard. Gwyneth's got this great let them eat cake attitude, which I love. I imagine one day me and Robert will have a wood burning stove and a back yard, but until then, she says it's ok to use a pizza stone in your oven. Any way you slice it, she says, homemade pizza cannot be beat.
But I don't know. The pizza looks tricky. Like lots of prep and stuff. I haven't kneaded dough since high school. And I don't know if Robert would really appreciate a Margherita pizza anyways. But the pictures of the pizza making— like the directions and stuff— are gorgeous. There's even a shot of one burnt pizza, which I don't think I could take after putting in all that effort. It would all be too much, my heart would break. No sweat for Gwyneth, though. She cracks a charming joke about having too much beer and it's all good.
I wish I could meet her, hang out with her, be like best friends. I'm pretty sure we'd get along great— we have so much in common. It's like she's my sister or something. Like what she eats, what she wears, her interests— she does the same things that I want to do. It's weird. Sometimes she'll like share a blog entry on something that I was just thinking about or dreaming about the day before, and I'll be all like, Yes... Yes!...Exactly... Exactly! Like she's reading my mind. Or like we share the same mind. Or we're the same person.
And looking at all these photos I imagine me, Gwyneth, Mario Batali and Jamie Oliver. Like all sitting in her beautiful back yard, eating her Quattro Formaggi pizza— which I'm sure would be my favorite it looks so good. We'd be like talking about parenting, and Tuscany, and food, and laughing and having the best time.
And then I'm not so sure. Like I'm changing my mind— like I'm starting to think that I don't want Jamie Oliver there anymore. He's a little bit of a fucking crybaby. I mean, I'm into healthy eating and all that shit too, but just the way he goes on and on with his food revolution. Like he's always sobbing... the children... obesity... heart disease... type II diabetes...
I once heard a rumor that he was at a Chinese nail salon when he was in town doing a booksigning or promoting a show. And he just starts weeping and shrieking because some girl filed his nails down a little shorter than he liked. And this poor girl doesn't speak English. Fresh off the boat. She's just terrified. Like they'll send her back to China, or put her in jail, or she'll have to become a hooker or some shit. She doesn't know. And he like refuses to pay them. He's sobbing. Like his lips are pulled back so you can see all his English teeth and gums. He says he wants them do it right. Like give him clip-ons to make them a sixteenth of an inch longer or some crazy shit. How am I supposed to cook with these nails? he keep whining.
My friend says that she was there. That it's true. Or I don't know— maybe it was a rumor I made up at the bar? Or at work? Whatever, I can't remember anymore. But I wouldn't doubt that it was true. I wouldn't doubt it at all.
So I looked for something easier to prepare. I tried out Gwyneth's Best Dirty Martini which is excellent, exactly how I like mine, and I read more GOOP. I read about Gwyneth's gross sweaty seat filler who left her seat all wet and sweaty at the Emmys. I read The Cheese Board. I read about Homosexuality in the Bible.
And then I just said fuck it and ordered a pizza. It was kind of getting too late to throw something together for poor Boo. He'd probably like the Pizza Hut better anyways. I made a note to myself to buy Gwyneth's cookbook My Father's Daughter. I was going to start cooking more. I really was going to be the best mother. And one of these days, the best wife. I really was. I knew it.
I also decided that I needed to write to or contact Gwyneth. Like maybe start some sort of correspondence. A blog? I wasn't sure, but I make friends pretty easy.
Loft
You should see it, he tells me. It's so cool. It's amazing. It's like you're really flying a plane. Robert can't stop smiling. I wonder how the hell he knows what it's like to really fly a plane. I wonder why he thinks I want to hear about it for like the tenth time.
He tells me that Tyler's brother, Josh, made a lot of money selling his half of some internet company or whatever. Like four hundred thousand dollars. He works in some computer department at the university now. More money. So he gets this downtown loft and starts ordering all sorts of crazy shit. Like a flight simulator. Like an actual flight simulator with a moving cockpit and a flight simulator program. With all the real switches and panels and everything. It's so real that the government did a background check on him to make sure he wasn't going to like fly it into a building or up the President's asshole or some shit.
And I feel like Robert's more excited about the stupid video game than he is about having a baby. Like he's more interested in hanging out with his friends than he is with me. So I tell him. I tell him that it would be nice if he showed that much enthusiasm about having a baby. Even just once.
And then he gets all defensive and is all like, Well I, uh... you know... you never tell me anything about your pregnant stuff. Like ultrasounds or doctor shit. Like am I supposed to go to the doctor with you? I don't know... do you need me to, I don't know, do anything? Like classes or anything? Because I mean, I will... it's just that... I don't know. I'm sorry. I just don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I thought you'd be telling me more.
I tell him it's ok. I'm just hormonal, I guess. Don't worry about it. I just thought we might be seeing more of each other after we'd moved in together is all. He can go fly his plane.
I honestly think I used to see more of him when we were both working full time and living apart. I've barely seen him the last couple weeks. Ever since he returned the favor, and helped Tyler and Josh move, he's barely been home. It's like all he does now is hang out at the loft with his friends and play video games and smoke weed. Or jam in the soundproof music room. Or use the home gym and MMA training area. Or watch movies in the home theatre.
I couldn't compete. Seriously. Especially since he wouldn't touch me. And it's not like I was going to keep blowing him for no good reason. I don't know, it's almost like I missed Dean and his dirty couch. Like maybe it was Dean's bad influence, like his radioactive pheremones, that just poisoned Robert, dragged him down to his lazy level. Like his khundalini asshole chakra just sucked and drained all the life and energy out of the room and kept Robert at home. I don't know.
Whatever. I was going to the Snail and Rooster. I think there were some strippers tonight. They could crash that fucking flight simulator for all I cared. There just better not be any little bitches hanging out at that loft. If I find out there's any little bitches there, I'll burn that fucking place to the ground.
Dear Red Shoe
There are a lot of stupid girls out there. Like a lot of stupid girls. And I wanted to do something good. Like to help them. I kind of believe that the more good we do for others, the more good comes back to us. Like karma, I guess. So I put these ads up on Craigslist and shit, with a link to an Assbook account that I made especially for the ads. I called myself Red Shoe.
I kind of got the idea, like the inspiration, from Red Shoe Diaries. You know, softcore porn, light jazz, sax. David Duchovny and his dog Stella go to the post office and read these pervy letters that women send him in response to a personal ad requesting pervy letters from women. It was a pretty good show.
Anyways, I figured there are a lot of girls who, you know, go to prom and they’re pregnant and maybe they don’t even know they’re pregnant. And they have the baby in the school’s shitter, except for they don't want the baby. Maybe they're confused. Maybe they thought they just had cramps, or ate some bad sushi or whatever. And now there's a baby in the toilet, and they don't know what to do. They just want to keep dancing and hanging out with their friends and having fun— only now they've got this baby in the shitter to deal with.
So they wrap the baby up in its cord and the towel from one of those gross cloth dispensers. The ones that are always like covered in green and yellow hork and blood and snot. And they'll toss the baby in the garbage can with the used tampons and shit. Then they’ll go back out to the gym and shake their leaky ass with some other skanks, or maybe like the class clown, and their dance will wind up on YouTube or whatever.
It was these girls that I was hoping to reach. Or girls who knew that they were pregnant and didn't really want anything to do with it. Like maybe they can't afford to abort or don't want to because they're like religious or feel sorry for the fetus or some shit.
So I put up a few ads.
