Tag Archives: bullshit

This is why I bomb people.

25 May

Haifa’s (Un)Employment Office is a sick joke. First off, that place is for people who need jobs so desperately they’ll sit and wait in line with number tickets. People with options are not usually found there. Meaning neither are people with funds. That latter specimen, would be me.

So how is it acceptable that today I had to invest what little money I had, in going there and be sent home empty-handed, due to the mistakes of others? I know when I contributed to a mistake or mishap, and in this case, I did not, in any way.

6.90 is a lot for me right now. I’m living on fumes and motherly love. I still invested it in a bus ride, and I still spent money on a shower, washing my clothes to have something to wear and make a good impression, and on a bottle of water. There is also electricity costs involved since you can’t really shower in the dark. Not safely anyway. Nevermind the boiler. All in all, today’s appointment cost me at least 20 Shekels.

The previous and first time I was there, was last week, where the woman signed me up, asked basic questions, etc. She gave me one of these embarassing “I’m a social burden” folded paper cards with stamp space. And she wrote on it: this person comes in for employment councelling every Monday between 10:30 and 12:30″. She repeated these instructions to me without asking if this is possible. So today I dutifully went. I went hating myself for having to stoop so low. Except that for once, my father had been right when he said that this place is all about humiliating, and not about helping, the people who go there for… help? Still, duties and promises and shit, y’know? When I promise my mom I go, I go. After all: I’m not like some people lacking both loyalty and integrity, like that legal advisor, Liran Izhar, who will promise you his help, has you get everything ready, gets your hope up, sends you to take care of this and that so he can start, and then let his own lack of control over his unfaithful penis and his insanely jealous and insecure you’re-not-councelling-a-woman-hotter-than-me “girlfriend” (are you a girl at age 40 and when you look like Yoda? I dunno, I’m 10 years removed from knowing) be the baseball bat that breaks such promises.

I went to the same person as previously, and she sent me to the councellor. I tell the friendly-looking councellor I came for employment councelling. She asks for my referral. I tell her the name of the employee who sent me. Her face droops and all cheer is replaced with a frightening degree of indignation – what did I do??? – and she tells me she needs an actual referral. I tell her the previous woman had simply sent me here, and she tells me, “Well, guess she’s confused. I need that referral”. I stammer that I’m gonna get it from that other woman right now.
Who tells me that in order to get a referral, I have to go through an interview first, “obviously”. Oh, an interview. I tell her that she mentioned no such thing during our previous meeting and only told me to come in every Monday for councelling.
“Yeah but not without an interview first!”
-“So why didn’t you mention that that would be the next step last time I was here??”
-“You didn’t ask.”
Excuse me? EX-FUCKING-CUSE ME???? I’m an unemployed blue collar-assed citizen looking for work in the lowest of places, and I am expected to have the psychic ability to predict that there is another step to talk about that she has not brought up between questioning me and telling me to simply come in every Monday? If I was psychic, I’d be hosting a TV show psyching the money out of gullible rich people. I had no way of knowing I needed to ask: do I need to come in for anything else other than what you, the person who gets paid to know how this shit works, stipulated?

Now, once more without asking if this worked for me, she set me an appointment for said interview. I don’t think I’m gonna make it to my crucial and difficult-to-obtain doctor’s appointment…
In other words, because of this woman’s mistake of not mentioning a crucial step in my employment councelling thingy, I invested a minimum of 20 Shekels in sweating my ass there for ZILCH.

Judging by the treatment I received there, a dead-end job is all my polyglot ass with all those writing, graphic, photography, animal, engineering, and other skills is gonna get there.

I mean… Get this: some old pity-employed dude with a face that looks like it has been absorbing too much alcohol and UV rays (=hardly employed or educated much, or else would be too busy for addictions that would thwart any advancement of your mental greatness, and baking in the sun without protection, because people with money actually smear something on their asses before going out for long), determined that I am no academic.
They filter you: academics over here, non-academics over there. I’m sorry? The definition – the official definition – of the term “academic” does not preclude people without a piece of paper to certify their… academicness. A profound love and effort of higher learning suffices to meet the criteria for the word. Do I need a piece of printed asswipe to prove my worth? Seriously? In professions not dependent on diplomas? I’m not applying for neurosurgery. I could write you a sentence containing 7 languages that is actually grammatically correct in each fucking one of them AND in its integrity, and paint a gallery-worthy picture around it and build it an altar with a fucking self-engineered fountain, danced on by dogs I trained special. I simply can’t prove it with a PIECE OF PRINTED ASSWIPE. I have spent a total of 5 years “academically” studying Japan, every aspect of making movies and TV, graphic design, and did I mention I taught myself HTML and current control in aquaristics…
What does a man whose face betrays alcoholism, know about academics shmacademics? He was like, “Are you an academic?” – “Yes, sir.” – “Got a degree?” – “Circumstances forced me to drop out, sir.” – “So nope.” Need me to code a response to that, sir?

I ain’t naming and shaming the specific individuals I dealt with as they’re probably just victims of the same dumb system that has violated my backdoor today. The “Lishkat HaTaasukah” itself is what’s rotten. These women are probably overworked and underpaid, so while today I wanted to rip their spleens out and force-feed them to them, I doubt they are the source of the problem. So no spleen-ectomies today. I simply left, bummed that I hadn’t at least charged my MP3 player so I could listen to an epic soundtrack on my way home to feel like I had just been obstacled in an epic quest ‘n’ shit.

‘n’ shit…

…shit…

(that’s an emotional echo)

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When you have 3 cable boxes

15 May

In response to someone complaining that he had to cancel his science channel subscription in 1 out of his 3 cable boxes because he isn’t offered any “decent” jobs (as in, management positions with on-site cafeterias). Which is funny because he can afford to turn down jobs for reasons as silly as the baby starting to cry – which is usually not an omen so much as a full diaper or empty stomach, or maybe a tooth digging its way through sensitive gums. I can’t not respond to these snobs. I know it sucks to have to lower your life standards. I know it sucks to be used to more. I know it sucks. But come on, not being able to watch the science channel on 3 TV sets?

I mean… My god, the poor man! Somebody, open a GoFundMe for him! He can only watch all of his fancy channels on 2 out of his 3 cable TVs! That is horrible. That is one step away from dumpster-diving and prostitution. I am so, so sorry. And I am so sorry you can’t get a management position right off the bat…

I mean, I only need 2/3 of a page to list my hard-earned skills, and I could do so in 7 languages including Japanese and HTML. I can only do nearly every task there is to do on a movie/TV set or post-prod. My photography and videography have only gotten me an internship offer in Hollywood. My animal handling skills only span across every creature with fewer than 6 legs, including a grown-ass lion and no means of defense. I have only won literature awards for my polyglot writing skills. I have only won even more awards, and been invited as a honorary guest at conventions, for my art.
And yet, if it weren’t for my generous, supportive parents, I wouldn’t have any channels on any of my… uh… 1 TV. I would have to feed my beloved rescue pets to teach-other instead of buying them decent, non-lethal kibble. I would spend more than the current average week not having real meals but rather, a can of olives and a pita through the day. I would not have what little social interaction I can afford the bus to and have to beg for a ride home. Because with all my qualifications, and my really low standards for a job, let me think what I got here:

  • no cafeteria and no management position in the dark, cold building I had to watch for 12 hours per night for close-to minimum wage so nobody would steal the dust there. Mind you, it was a bank building with exposed safes and I was not given a weapon; I am a vulnerable female. 
  • no respect and not even a greeting at the training center whose snobbish course participants I guarded for that near-minimum wage, but at least I got to take home the leftovers because the manager and I were the only non-snobs there who could appreciate leftovers at all. 
  • unpaid sickdays because my current near-minimum wage temp job is only, well, temp, so I won’t even be employed there long enough to get severance when the season ends and they kick me off the boat. My last paycheck was 700 Shekels, try living off that, but I was too sick to work for a week, and the holidays I hadn’t chosen to take (Pesach,..) weren’t paid, either
  • I love that job anyway; I get to assist spoilt, sheltered assholes in organizing their FREE trip through MY country that I cannot afford living in decently, while they for some absurd reason get to call it their birthright

From his blog post alone, I’m thinking my list of qualifications is a lot longer than his, while I have been forced to lower my standards way below his if I want to continue not eating my dog. So yeah, I’d love to trade places. Except, I don’t, because while living dangerously close to the poverty line, I cherish what I have. One head-bump from my cat is worth a hundred of the vacations on Bora Bora I fantasize about.
You know, I’m used to better living, too. We used to own the 3-floor 500 squaremeter houses with the 600 squaremeter gardens we lived in, and the pet foxes and the weekly 500 dollar shopping sprees and my yearly party trips to and through Japan, or the monthly concerts in France. Nowadays, I crash parties to hamster as much free food as possible, I grab napkins wherever I’m invited for coffee because toilet paper costs money, I take as many naps as possible during which I preserve electricity and food, and I only move around where transportation is either free or not needed, so I usually have to tell my friends “I’m sorry I can’t come to your party, I have no money for the bus or to contribute that bag of Bamba”. I would urgently need my hormonal uglies treated, but beauty clinic would mean 300 Shekels monthly, and that is an investment I daren’t even speak out loud. 
Sadly, this country offersn’t the anonymity required for prostitution. LOL.

I am so sorry for him having had to cancel a TV channel in one out of 3 TV sets. If it weren’t for the support from my family, I would have to cancel my TV subscription altogether and I’m actually 1 step, 1 bill, 1 sick pet, away from that because TV is really the last thing anyone needs. But of course that’s no comparison to having to choose which one of your fancy 3 cable TV installations to watch a subscription channel from. My wet dream is to be able to afford NatGeo Wild on my 1 TV set, so I can see the lions I’m too poor to see in the wild because my life savings I wanted to invest in a volunteer program caring for orphaned lions in Africa, have been dissolved into cheap, crappy food and soap and asswipe. Had to trade in one of my biggest, teary-eyed dreams (wiping baby lion butts) for cans of pickles.

And I am so sorry this poor man can afford to turn down a decent job offer on a whim because his baby squeaked “ominously”.

And unless someone comes along complaining that he can’t watch all the TV he likes or has to decline a job offer because there is no goddamned cafeteria, I do not throw myself pity parties. I just try and adjust by finding cheaper hobbies, cheaper food, cheaper everything, and actually, it’s not that horrible. Who needs TV anyway?

 

What’s your excuse?

9 Jan

Nobody should get to body-shame. Nobody gets to decree what a correct body is. Nobody gets to tell someone that they are abusing or disrespecting themselves just for not obsessing over fitness and being slim. And you know what? I’m not buying “concern” when it’s in the form of hating, bullying, and shaming. After all, they are not shaming and harassing smokers, anorexics, or other people with an unhealthy lifestyle. And even if there are health concerns? NONE OF ANYONE’S BUSINESS.

Certainly no reason to be mean.

And fitness supplements tend to be unhealthy, too. There are healthy obese people; I am one of them. Fit women do not need to glorify themselves by putting down others. If they can’t shine without throwing shade on fat women, that says more about them than it does about us. I sure don’t go around shaming fit or slim women; I intend to live and let live – and demand to BE let live.

There’s something “subtly” hateful about those motivation pictures of “before and after” budybuilding women with captions such as “What’s your excuse?”. The pictures tell you to stop looking one way (fat), and start looking the other (toned), and not to make excuses.

So you need an excuse to feel comfortable in your current body? Who are those “motivation” people to tell you what body to feel good in? I have believed it for so long, I believed they were right and the way I looked was incorrect, and that I “owed” it to myself to feel shitty about being fat. Why does a healthy overweight person need to make excuses or feel compelled to “get toned” in the first place? Even if they’re not healthy, it’s none of anybody’s business – plus, fit people get sick, too. Who’s to say that “firm and toned” is correct, and “fat and soft” isn’t? Doctors? Well, doctors will tell you that health is not just an issue of size and that some fat is actually healthy. Much unlike a lot of fitness supplements that can literally eat holes into your brain. I mean, what makes you think you should, daily, consume something that says “Do not use if you’re pregnant, nursing, old, young, fast heartrate, slow heartrate, epileptic, etc.”? Does that sound better than a burger? Really?
Why am I even made to feel like I need an excuse? Why can’t I just be the way I am without feeling guilty or embarassed or like I’m not treating myself right? And even if I were mistreating myself, how does that entitle others to diss me?

Why are people trying to tell me to feel guilty about not doing much about my weight? It’s not like I’m not trying at all, but I refuse to obsess over it anymore. And my only issue is the cellulite anyway. Otherwise, I’m quite okay being big. Why are women told to obsess about their appearance and feel bad when they don’t fit such and such ideal? Why do we have to feel like we deserve the hate we’re getting? Who are we hurting or offending by being big or soft? Nobody is telling ugly-faced women to get a nose job, nobody is telling small-breasted women to get a boob job, nobody is telling short women to have leg extension surgery and God forbid anyone were to tell a woman with kinky hair to straighten it. I mean, it is all well-marketed industries, but not as aggressive and omnipresent – and hateful – as the weight issue. You don’t see accusing and holier-than-thou pictures with the caption “What is your excuse” depicting a woman before and after facelift. Oh, so working out is more honest/healthy/real than surgery? Sure, especially with all those supplements…. And why do methods matter anyway? I don’t feel guilty about having had multiple procedures done. Why should I? Worked for me, all the belly went POOF in a matter of hours.

I’m fat and I’m healthy, and the only reason I’m not “fat and happy”, is because all the hate I get for being fat while I can’t remember having done anything to deserve it. Fat hate will be justified the day that “receding hairline” hate, “ugly nose” hate, “pudgy fingers” hate, “kinky hair” hate, or “short teeth” hate is justified. But you don’t see anyone hating that to this degree. Oh, so fat isn’t natural but big foreheads are? Well how about this: some are naturally predisposed to be heavier. And supplements are natural? Shaming people on Facebook is natural? Coloring your hair is natural? To hell with the natural argument, it’s invalid, nobody honestly cares about nature or health when dissing the appearance of others. It’s not about that, it’s 95% “look at me being all superior compared to those fatties and uglies” and an attempt to make it sound educated.

So screw this “What is your excuse” BS. Wanna know my excuse? Because eating a bag of chips at the movies is more fun than being a bunch of shallow douchebags’ reason to touch themselves.

The Arrogance of Solidarity

15 Jun

Image

‘t Is me. Yeah. On the first night of October (the date on the picture is from the day I edited it), I shaved my head bald. Completely. With a woman’s hand razor. Over the course of hours. Since I like sharing my life and shocking people in the process, I immediately made sure Facebook knew about it.

And Facebook immediately made sure I knew what an empowering, inspiring woman I am.

…what?

Feminists lauded me for giving “rape culture” and “macho” society that much-needed message: “Fuck you, I will not please men and to drive my point home, I will now disfigure myself needlessly and excessively, I’m a woman, hear me roar!”
That isn’t the words they told me, but that’s all I hear when I hear/read angry feminists celebrating an excessive degree of making oneself undesirable or ugly to men just to piss them off or make a point. Like the emo(tionally unstable) teenager who slits her wrists and uploads that shit to Instagram to make sure her daddy understands that she feels raped by not being allowed to party with her boozehead friends until 5 am. Hurt or ridicule yourself more than you hurt, ridicule, or even change, others. I don’t believe in this. If I cannot fight a battle or a war unless the only scenario where my opponent loses, being one where I lose too, by putting myself in a long-term position where I would never want to be in, I will not fight. I will not suffer in the name of feminism; who cares whether macho society makes me suffer or I do it to myself?

The other reaction I got a lot was, well, friends and family of cancer/chemo patients praising me for my beautiful gesture of sparkling solidari—no. You know, with all due respect because I get you’re doing it with pure intentions, if I had cancer and someone who wasn’t even family went and shaved their hair off to tell me they understand my pain and suffer with and for me, I would rip their pubic hair out one by one and implant it into their heads using a staple gun. Then they know my pain.
I’ve never had cancer but from what I understand, it sucks. You lose organs over it, you spend years of pain and sickness with or without treatment, and you may die. In front of the miserable faces of your loved ones. Having shaved my head after always having treasured long hair to a point where I spent what little money I had, on extensions, I know how big a loss it is. Not a big one. As long as you got a nice face, you’ll be fine. It grows back. It’s a few months of looking unusual and maybe getting stares, so what? People stare all the time, it’s in our nature to stare at what we deem unusual. It’s not animosity that drives these stares, so calm down and stop beating people up for staring at chemo patients or other unusual-looking people – no one means them any harm or offense. Some even stare in awe.
Losing your hair is no fun, and most women, myself included, love long hair and wouldn’t want to lose it lightly. So yeah, it was a bit painful for me to lose my hair. It was one of the few things I had going for me appearance-wise. It wasn’t pleasant. But it was not a huge deal, either. Having cancer is a huge deal, and if you think that you can even begin to understand what a cancer patient goes through just by cutting your hair, errr nope. Losing your hair without losing an organ or a job or a spouse or your last bit of life by being chained to a hospital bed, is probably not a loss that would inspire awe or gratitude in a cancer patient for your “sacrifice”. You only lose your hair for a little while.
It would be different if you were to donate the hair to have wigs for cancer patients made. But on the other hand, there are enough wigs on the market that should be good enough. Indian women get screwed out of their hair all the time by being told it’s for the gods and then it’s really just for a greedy old man who makes money out of it. I’m guessing a wig is near the bottom of a cancer patient’s priorities, way underneath Survival, Family, and A-way-to-take-the-edge-off-this-agony.

So no, you’re not a hero.

Neither are you a hero if you’re one of those idiot Jews who get concentration camp tattoos. What the fuck? Again, just like the head-shavers-for-cancer, they just go and get the look, the mark, of a “victim of suffering”, and think this signifies solidarity. No. It signifies that you think you understand any extent of the horror Holocaust victims and survivors had to go through. But you don’t. You don’t have the memory of the abuse, the fear of death, the smell of your people being incinerated. You don’t have the memory of the indescribable feeling the survivors must have felt when they were freed. You got your number willingly, probably feeling all epic about yourself, and not at gun point. You don’t even begin to understand their suffering, and neither do I, and I refuse to sit my well-off ass down and get a tattoo for 50 bucks and a wince of pain, when the people who’ve inspired it, have been through so much more to end up branded. Unwillingly.

Getting a camp tattoo “in solidarity” with Holocaust survivors or in a victim’s memory, or shaving your head to show that you “get” cancer patients, is like going to a bar to have bad but consensual sex with a guy who ain’t your type, to show solidarity with rape victims.

You make no sacrifice. You sit down feeling all warm and fuzzy and do-goody about yourself by getting a small or temporary modification done or going through a period of inconvenience.

And as for that calf number 269 whose number you got tattooed somewhere it doesn’t bother you? Cute, now follow through and get slaughtered. Then you understand its pain. You sit around on your fat ass eating tofu only the better-off can afford, playing around on your Smartphone, trying on cute dresses, and somewhere in the background of your activity, you have a tiny little number tattoo. If calf 269 could speak, it would probably ask you what part of its pain, other than its number being burned into your skin, you share. And then it would shit on your hipster-ass canvas shoes.

And as for my bald head? In my quest for beauty I had ruined my hair with aggressive black perms and it was falling out in strands. There was no saving it, only getting rid of all the damaged hair (ALL the hair), and letting it grow back naturally. No sociopolitics, no cancer awareness, just the disappointment that yet another one of my desperate quests for beauty had gone horribly wrong.