Archive for January, 2010

Writing the Perfect Resume

Despite a rather modest salary, my new full-time job offers not only health insurance benefits, but dental benefits as well.

I will miss my Medicaid Card and the $200 in food stamps that Michael Bloomberg granted me each month for the last half-year, but I just can’t sit around and read all the time. I must do something to pass the days, besides, on Medicaid, one is entitled to just three dental visits a year, and my mouth is so broken.

Not working is dangerous to one’s mind—we must keep busy—otherwise, we vanish into the pages of history.

It is a miracle that I found work in this recession. It seems my prayers were heard. I thought I would have to move back home to Pennsylvania and leave both New York and my lover of seven years behind. I spent the summer and fall reading religious texts from the library; for all hope had departed me.

My eyes are tired—I want to work again. I want to kiss my boss’s ass, even if she is mean to me like the others were. But this one seems different—she’s not a bitch at all—very professional, she seems after just one week. I thank God he led me to an interview with her and that she chose me.

Despite my homosexual tendencies and the sin that they are, The Lord led me to a government- subsidized, stimulus package-financed position, severing the homeless. My new employer is a charitable organization founded by Catholics in the late 1800’s in honor of the martyr, Saint Christopher.

It is highly unlikely that this charity will go under, like the Bernard Madoff vested not-for-profit organization that fired me, just when the recession struck.

I’m making enough to live off of now—and that’s what matters. Deep inside, I feel holy; for every day at eight am, I walk out the door, jump on the G train and head further into Brooklyn towards the Catholic charity that offers me my daily bread.

If one is ever in need of a job, I suggest they read and pray to Saint Teresa of Avila, for it was she who saved me from this depression.

“Surely there is a God and he led me here,” I whisper as I swipe my Metro Card, heading underground again to those subways that take New Yorkers anywhere they need to go. But we have a company car at the new job—I may also serve as a driver for my new boss—that saintly woman.

Seven years serving a Jewish run mental health clinic was enough to make me question Christ’s resurrection; but now my hope in humanity is restored and another opportunity to share my talents for the greater-good of mankind has broken from the tomb that was my shattered hope. For a moment, I lost all desire to write anymore, but now, with a paycheck coming in, I may just start writing again, even though I really don’t have the time for it.

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Twenty One Again

I’ll bake my own birthday cake. My lover cannot crack an egg without shattering the shell, nor does he use measuring spoons when adding vanilla extract. Being the bottom in a decade long man-on-man affair calls for desperate measures when one turns 42. No matter how sweet he is, I’ll do this myself, thank you!

Our gas oven is on its last flame anyway—we’ve used it this winter to heat the apartment. The stove stays on only at the broil setting. I’ll have to occasionally open the oven door to keep the inside roasting at an even 350. Thankfully the electricity and gas are still on despite those cards that someone keeps leaving at my door.

Peanut butter icing is my favorite. To make a Reese’s Cup glaze, I’ll combine a pound of a confectionery sugar, a stick of butter, and a half jar of peanut butter. Using a pastry bag, I’ll place sweet stars over Duncan Hine’s Devil’s Food baked in the shape of a teddy bear.

An aluminum teddy bear cake pan still hangs on my kitchen wall next to the pan shaped like a football. I never dust them off and haven’t baked in them since I made B’s mother a bear cake almost a half-decade ago.

There is an quarter inch of marijuana smoke scum covering the silver exteriors of the pans now. So much time has passed since I last baked a cake.

The shade of sandy brown offered by the peanut butter icing makes the perfect fur on a teddy bear, or the pig skin on a football cake. Perhaps I’ll bake both cakes and place twenty-one candles on each—something to blow—poor ‘B’– he’ll have to put on his Timberland Boots in the bedroom this evening—that’s all I ask for my birthday—the Timberland boots and a pair of boxer shorts.

Yes, I’ll bake my own cake. He got enough to do.

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2010 Prophecy

Before the end of 2010 a virus erases most databases.

Google revolutionizes on-line publishing and reading.

A pill developed for Alzheimer’s becomes the hot new party drug.

An earthquake puts the gay back in San Francisco.

The year will be remembered for pie graphs and projections, but in the end, only the wealthy can afford solar energy.

A trend to legalize medical marijuana sweeps the nation—and as America dies a slow cancerous death, the masses suffer only from the munchies.

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