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Chutzpah





My friend laughs at me a lot. "You definitely win awards for burning bridges. Don't know anyone as reckless as you."

I rarely ask favors from people. Which cracks me up because so many ask the world from me without volunteering any reciprocity. However, over the past several years, I got wise and ask for something in return. That's when they get offended, for how dare I ask for anything in return. Then I burn bridges.

I don't consider it burning a bridge when someone doesn't want to do me a favor in kind. I don't give a fuck how famous, rich, connected that person is - all I know is that their fame, money and networking won't find its way to helping me. So, in my point of view, I'm not burning a bridge at all - I'm getting rid of dead wood.

While I'm on the topic about dead wood, here's another thing that bugs the shit outta me: when men - usually fat, old and grisly fucks - flirt with me online. I've no interest in these motherfuckers except that they should buy all my books. They're time sucks if I don't tell them outright, something I learned. I now tell them, 'Buy my books.' Should they get offended, de-fuck them, go ahead and defriend me. However, when I make a demand, they do buy my books, read them and then leave me the fuck alone.

What it boils down to is that I went one step further in my rants and rages against the local GOP (Blog Post) which wouldn't consider hiring me for a crappy ill paid blogging job: I not only sent a copy of the post to the Republican National Committee, I subsequently applied for a job.

My friend went, "Holy Shit!! That's chutzpah!" and cracked up.

I said, "Hey, desperate measures for desperate times!"

But, here's the thing: I had to apply TWICE on two different websites. Just in case, you know.

Even had a terrific cover letter:


I spent 30 years on Wall Street, attritioned at the end of 2008. When there were 0 jobs for a middle-aged overly-educated Jewish white woman, I turned to my passion, writing. My first novel won critical praise and awards and now I'm an accredited literary American writer.

It still didn't get me a job.

I met with Congressman XXXXX who endorses me. He may think the world of me, but it still didn't get me a job.

I always voted Republican even though I was a registered Democrat. Four years ago, I realized how stupid that was and finally changed parties. I've been vocal about being an "R" through my blog, twitter and FB, facing disdain, disrespect and general mayhem. It cost me friendships and pretty much job opportunities in my 99% Democratic County in NY State.

So, I'm approaching you. I'm talented, I've done enough public speaking on NPR, I've been interviewed in magazines, I've integrity and I'm a damn good Republican. What can I do for you to support myself?

The net result is that someone from the House of Representatives in DC read my biography on my website while someone else reads all my blog posts. I should've warned them about the porn.

Oh well. I wait for a response...

As a teen, I understood that Communism provided food, education, shelter and medicine to those who didn't have. My mother attempted to explain to no avail that this was orchestrated to make people relieved that someone would take care of them.

Today, I see what my mother meant with the mass economic genocide of the baby boomers - whether white or blue collared. By the millions, we're forced out of our careers, savings and homes. There's no reason why someone like me can't get a job. None. It's just one way to tip our hand towards Communism.

Call me a kook, call me a crank. But with the rampant unemployment, mass incompetency of those who do have a job (generally speaking), the way this country devolved into a third world nation, I fear that the inevitable outcome will be Communism, where people will be so thankful of receiving free medical care, food, shelter that we don't give a fuck who's in charge of our lives.

Hence, my request for a job with the GOP. If they can't hire me, fuck, then they might as well dismantle for the Communist effort is firmly in force.



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