Watch the trailer!
Yay, people are reading my paper, A Cross Theoretical Model of Persuasion!
Its code title was BRAINWASHING WITH LIES!!! Because it is a guide on how to increase the persuasiveness of a message when dealing with stubborn people that JUST DON’T GET IT. Sometimes a fictional story is the only plausible solution.
You can download it here:
Here’s the link to the video https://youtu.be/iXln8IXIPdA
So, I’m unemployed, yay!
I’m actively looking for a day job, writing my capstone (dissertation) and editing my new novel: COFFEE, SHOPPING, MURDER, LOVE, a dark comedy about angry gays killing people. This morning I reached this, which I wrote a few months ago. How à propos!
Read it with a deep Southern accent!
[Charlie, who recently lost his job too, laments his situation]
I wish I could help Jignesh [his lover, who started a money laundering business]. Well, I better help, I’m all smeared into this murder catastrophe [two bodies, so far]. I need to find a new job, that would be a proper way to help, wouldn’t it? But I’m so depressed, so incredibly down by this perilous situation that I spend the whole day on Facebook and visiting porn sites. I only check Craigslist for the personal listings… God, the things one reads there. Let’s have a party in pantyhose… It’s rather unsettling.
I entertain some time cleaning. Dusting the shelves, fluffing the cushions. I start a mental list of the changes we need to do in our home. We could use a new dining table… And I think this house needs to be tented. The wood in the window frames is all rotten, and I haven’t had the bravery to check yet, but I bet the attic is vermin infested.
Dear God, I know he’s an infidel, and a sinner, and that the whole thing is illegal, but please help Jignesh succeed in his business endeavors and send us the miracle we need to get rid of those bodies. Touch Mike’s heart so he gets a bonus this month. And the next too. And the next too, and so forth, at least until I find a job and can take care of my own expenses… What could I do that doesn’t involve any actual effort, I wonder, scrolling down on my Tumblr newsfeed… Oy, nice peaches…
To think of all those lazy people on disability and me in the most complete wretchedness, depending on a man I’m not attracted to. I can’t even enjoy wasting time on the internet without feeling a lump form in my throat. The government should send me a monthly stipend to compensate me for all my suffering. I had a rough childhood. Discriminated. Prosecuted. Forced to leave my paternal home and move to Southern California to escape a reactionary life on a hyper-caloric diet, and once here, never discovered. I am too pretty. Too meek. Too sensible… Matteo has a forty percent sale. Would it be too extravagant to purchase new sheets, considering my dire circumstances?
If a friend asked you to photocopy the photo of a man someone told her is a murderer and then distribute it among all your friends and acquaintances with the specific purpose of ruining that man’s reputation, you probably wouldn’t say yes, would you? Even if your friend offered to release you of most of the burden by paying for the photocopies and distributing them herself using your contact list, the fear of committing slander would prevent you from spreading what may not be but a malicious rumor. And yet, we spread unconfirmed claims among the members of our social network all the time, whenever we share a meme without confirming first whether the information it contains is correct: Roma stealing babies, corrupt politicians, presumed rapists and pedophiles of a certain ethnicity, selfish celebrities. We call attention on reprehensible attitudes basing our judgment not on concrete evidence and logical arguments, but in one evocative image and a few stirring words.
The present paper attempts to explain what makes us agree with the content of a meme and persuades us to share it in the absence of strong evidence to justify its claims.
A meme’s potential to convince individuals of the veracity of its content and worthiness to be shared relies on its simplicity, the viewers’ ability to understand the concepts portrayed within the meme, transportation, the viewers’ attitude, and the viewers’ perceived norms towards such concepts. Viewer’s attitude can be changed by appealing to emotion.
An internet meme is an image, usually accompanied by text, that is copied and spread rapidly through the internet (Oxford Dictionary). Memes tend to be humorous. Some are innocuous like the “I has feet” lizard (Rahimi, Pinterest), but some are inflammatory, like this one from the British National Party (BNP) implying that the refugees taken by Germany are a threat to the UK (BNP Facebook post, 2015).
According to the Reasoned Action Theory (RAT), volitional behavior, or intention, is a function of four determinants: “one’s attitude toward the behavior in question, one’s injunctive norm, one’s descriptive norm, and perceived behavioral control” (O’Keefe, 2015; p. 99). Based on this model we can express a meme’s power to persuade viewers about the veracity of its content and worthiness to be shared as a function of the viewers’ ability to both understand its message and share it (the perceived behavioral control in the RAT model); the viewers’ attitude towards the subject portrayed within the message, and the viewers’ perceived norms, i.e. the public’s opinion.
Since the viewers’ ability to understand a meme and the perceived capability to share it are conditions sine qua non to change intention, we explain their effect first.
We have a natural need for cognition (O’Keefe, 2015). That’s why we spend hours at a time following the thoughts of strangers in Twitter and browsing our friends’ posts in Facebook. Yet “we have very little attentional capacity,” (Ware, 2010; Kindle Location 192) and tend to avoid high elaboration, in order to save time and energy (Ware, 2010), especially when the matter has little relevance to us, as the elaboration likelihood model predicts (O’Keefe, 2015). Now, because most memes consist of only one image and one or two lines of text, they require a minuscule effort to process. We may not be willing to invest our time reading or listening to arguments that attempt to convince us that Obama is a terrible president, especially when we think he’s not, but reading a meme with a similar argument not only is easy but almost unavoidable when it appears in our news feed. Reading a meme is a bottom-up process in the sense that we get tuned to interpret it (Ramsøy, 2014). Avoiding it requires a conscious effort. Its distinct image pops out “because of automatic mechanisms operating prior to the action of attention” (Ware, 2010; Kindle Locations 680-681) resulting from the parallel processing within the visual areas of the brain, leading us next to read the accompanying text, then to decide whether we agree or not with its message, and if we do, whether to share it or not. Because of the affordances of social media (see Ellison, Steinfeld, Lampe & Vitak, 2011), the perceived capability to share is almost a given: it takes one click
Seeing a meme is also a top-down process, though, in the sense that we are drawn to read memes based on our previous experience with other memes: many are just fun to read and it is the promise to have a good laugh that makes us pay attention.
Simplicity is not enough, however, for a meme to successfully convey its message and persuade us to spread it. The concepts implied must be understood, and because memes are by definition, very brief, this understanding depends heavily on our semantic memory, our “general knowledge about the world, concepts, language, and so on” (Eysenck & Keane 2010; p. 255). A Scumbag Steve meme (See Samjowen, 2011) brings to mind a cascade of semantic concepts: millennials, men that wear jewelry, fur, and designer clothes; the naiveté implied by rosy cheeks and a slightly opened mouth, etc. Separate, all these concepts have different meanings. Brought together they imply arrogance, stupidity, self-centeredness, and conceit. Memes combine narratives and rhetoric: They use emotion and the cultural heritage of the audience as persuasive tools (Weida & Stolley, 2013). An evocative image has the power to transport us, if only for a fraction of a second, especially when we’re bored and looking to be entertained (Green & Brock, 2000) as it is often the case while using social media, and transportation can lead to a change of beliefs (Green & Brock. 2002).
Which bring us to the next determinant, attitude. Once the message is interpreted, viewers’ decide whether they agree with it. Memes do not contain strong arguments. The emotions aroused are the evidence that support their claims. While agreement with a meme’s message can be affected by transportation, mostly it depends on the viewer’s previous attitude towards the subject. According to the summative model of attitude, attitude is a function of the strength with which an individual holds a series of beliefs about a subject and his evaluation of these beliefs (O’Keefe, 2015). A meme that calls to punish presumed rapists and pedophiles, like this one (BNP Facebook post, 2014) is so blatantly racist that it may cause reasonable doubt about its veracity, but at first glance, due to transportation and in the absence of deep elaboration, the decision on whether to agree to it will depend on whether the viewer assigns a heavier weight to his rejection of rape or the need to be politically correct, since the ultimate message is one of discrimination.
Using a simpler example, a person with a positive attitude towards President Obama will most likely disagree with a meme that shows Robert Downey Jr. rolling his eyes and the accompanying text “my face, every time Obama starts talking” (Memegenerator.net) and probably will not share it, unless intended as a joke, or to raise awareness on the matter. Now, what if this same person, let’s call her Claudia, has a somewhat neutral attitude towards Obama but a positive attitude towards the actor, and the actor’s opinion weighs more in her decision than any beliefs she may hold about the President? Claudia may conclude that if Robert Downey Jr. feels that way about President Obama’s talking, Obama is probably a bore, and she may decide to share the meme. In this case, an injunctive norm, the belief that Robert Downey Jr. dislikes Obama, together with transportation, have a persuasive effect on Claudia’s decision. Granted, her belief is assumed as true due solely to heuristics: Claudia does not know the actor, but it’s in a meme, and in her experience, memes tend to contain the true, so that must be the actor’s opinion.
How could she arrive at that conclusion? Facebook shows us first the posts from those who we explicitly mark as “show first,” and from those with whom we interact the most (Bereznak, 2014). Because we tend to connect in social media with those that are akin to us (Johnson, Zhang, Bichard, & Seltzer, 2011), the memes we get to see in our news feed come, most likely, from individuals that share our attitudes. The weight we assign to our closest friends’ opinions acts then as an injunctive norm, impelling us to agree with what they share. Likewise, the fact that a meme or a series of memes expressing similar concepts seem to be everywhere, acts as a descriptive norm. In other words, consensus has a weight in the decision whether to accept the content of a meme as true.
The decision whether to share or not a meme, relies on whether we agree with its content or, at least, find it relevant enough to be shared. To persuade a viewer of the veracity of their content and worthiness to be shared, memes rely on the viewers’ ability to understand their message, which is a function of the viewers’ semantic memory, previous attitudes, emotions aroused by inducing transportation, as well as other heuristics such as consensus and credibility, and internet and social media affordances, that make them incredibly easy to spread.
Bereznak, A. (2014, June 30). How Does Facebook Decide What Shows Up in Your News Feed, Anyway? Retrieved February 18, 2016, from https://www.yahoo.com/tech/how-does-facebook-decide-what-shows-up-in-your-news-90375237489.html
British National Party. (2015, September 13). Let’s get Britain Out of the EU! (Facebook Post). Retrieved February 18, 2016, from https://www.facebook.com/OfficialBritishNationalParty/photos/pb.71523830069.-2207520000.1455825408./10153614247940070/?type=3
British National Party. (2014, September 10). More than 1,400 young British girls. Retrieved February 18, 2016, from https://www.facebook.com/OfficialBritishNationalParty/photos/pb.71523830069.-2207520000.1455829039./10152703897090070/?type=3
Ellison, N., Lampe, C., Steinfeld, C., & Vitak, J. (2011). With a Little Help From My Friends: How Social Network Sites Affect Social Capital Processes. In Z. Papacharissi (Ed.), A networked self: Identity, community and culture on social network sites. New York: Routledge.
Eysenck, M., & Keane, M. (2010). In Cognitive psychology: A student’s handbook (6th ed.). Hove, Eng.: Psychology Press.
Green, M. C., & Brock, T. C. (2000). The role of transportation in the persuasiveness of public narratives. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 79(5), 701-721.
Green, M. C., & Brock, T. C. (2002). In the Mind’s Eye: Transportation-Imagery Model of Narrative Persuasion. In M. C. Green, J. J. Strange & T. C. Brock (Eds.), Narrative Impact: Social and Cognitive Foundations (pp. 315-342). Mahwah, NJ, US: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publishers.
Johnson, T., Zhang, W., Bichard, S., & Seltzer, T. (2011). United We Stand? Online Social Network Sites and Civic Engagement. In Z. Papacharissi (Ed.), A networked self: Identity, community and culture on social network sites. New York: Routledge.
Memegenerator.net. (n.d.). My face every time Obama starts talking. Retrieved February 17, 2016, from http://cdn.meme.am/instances/65869316.jpg
O’Keefe, D. (2015). Persuasion: theory and research. SAGE Publications. Kindle Edition.
Rahimi, S. (sharer). Animal cuteness. In Pinterest website. Retrieved February 17, 2016, from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/165718461262104868/
Ramsøy, T. (2014). Introduction to neuromarketing & consumer neuroscience. Neurons Inc ApS. Kindle Edition.
Samjowen. (2011). Scumbag Steve. Retrieved February 17, 2016, from http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/scumbag-steve
Stevenson, A., & Lindberg, C. A. (2010). New Oxford American dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Apple Widget
Ware, C (2010). Visual thinking: for design (Morgan Kaufmann Series in Interactive Technologies). Elsevier Science. Kindle Edition.
Weida, S., & Stolley, K. (2013, March 1). Using Rhetorical Strategies for Persuasion. Retrieved November 16, 2015, from https://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/588/04/
Forest of Fortune isn’t an ordinary novel. More than a narrative, it is a trip to the lives of others, three tortured souls whose paths never really cross but have in common one place, the Thunderclap Casino.
This is a very manly book. Ruland doesn’t care about adorning his characters with any likable features; the stench of vice, poverty, self-centeredness and low self-esteem is present on every page, yet you come to love that same stench because Ruland draws his characters in a way that it is impossible not to feel for them. My personal favorite was Pemberton—maybe a gender bias. At the beginning of the book, we follow him through a binge of alcohol and cocaine, visiting characters who, for those living in Los Angeles, will sound a little too familiar. There’s always a Kiki around. After such a night, you cannot stop reading. Pemberton is ending his own life yet you can’t help but enjoy with the same desperation as he does every shot and every line the author invites you to have with him. Others will empathize more with Alice, drowned in sadness, and Lupita, having a good time but guilted by what she sees as selfishness. All and all, you may think you have nothing in common with these three people, still, you will connect with them as if they were your best friends.
I couldn’t decide at first whether I liked the ending or not so I had to read it a second time. I decided I loved it. It was appropriate, if too soon—I wanted more. I definitely loved the trip all throughout precisely because it takes you nowhere. Now, to be one hundred percent honest, Ramona could have been edited out, you can’t reach the same level of empathy with her, still, I’m looking forward to Ruland’s next work of fiction.
After reading this book, the four words he uses to describe himself on his website, “writer, sailor, punk, rat,” make you nod and say: “yeah!” with a big smile.
You can read more about the Jim Ruland’s book here
This is what I’m currently working on. It needs no introduction but just in case you don’t get satire, a kind warning: it’s satire.
#SantaMonica #LGBT #gayboys #comedy #whiteprivilege #maleprivilege #writing #comedy #LosAngeles
“Never felt better,” the old man says. Then he laughs, and so does the young man he’s talking to.
Never better? I think, studying my shocked reflection in front of a full length mirror inside the men’s locker room at the Equinox. I turn to the old man. He must be at least five-hundred years old. He looks like a fucked up version of Charlton Heston. He probably had better days before. “How old are you, sweetie?” I feel compelled to ask, yet, I’m afraid of how out of place my high-pitched and utterly nasal voice with a thick Southern drawl will sound. Therefore, I don’t.
I never talk much at the gym. I know, this is California. No one will punch you for sounding too effeminate, au contraire, you may be asked for a campaign donation, but one has dark memories from his early childhood, and my voice is, in any case, truly annoying. You would find it funny if I were a middle-aged Jewish woman from Brooklyn, but I’m a rather short, thirty-seven-year-old white homosexual from Leitchfield, Kentucky. Yep, that’s me, Charlie. I have dark bags under my eyes, I check in the mirror. Dark like the conscience of Lord Vader after he destroyed his beloved daughter’s adoptive planet.
I zip up my bag and as I hasten out of the locker room, I hear the old man brag one more time about his good constitution. That’s one of the dangers of lurking inside the locker room for too long in hopes of catching a glimpse of a hot guy’s penis. One gets to hear the weirdest conversations.
What a lovely day for a stroll in downtown Santa Monica, I see, through the front windows. The morning fog has burnt off. Too bad I have to be back at work in less than twenty minutes. Too bad I can’t really afford this stupid yuppie gym, I wave good-bye to Jackie, the receptionist, but I wouldn’t want to attend a gym for poor people. In any case, I press the walk button to cross the street, I’m on a mission. One does not show up to a first date wearing old clothes. Twenty minutes might be more than sufficient.
I love the Third Street Promenade. I hardly find the hordes of European tourists ignoring the non-smoking signs obnoxious. I embrace them. They’re a reminder of the wonderful world I live in, during the daytime, in prosperous, well-to-do Santa Monica. Nights I live in West Adams. It’s not such a bad place to live. It’s in transition. I haven’t heard a shooting since May, and no, I don’t regret having spent my nana’s meager inheritance on the downpayment for a house there five years ago. Yes, I cannot afford the mortgage, but I remain positive. The great recession is over, Obama will serve a second term—cross my fingers—and one day soon my property will go up in value. No one wanted to buy here in the 1980s, and now, just look around you. Pleasure your eyes at all those fabulous dinosaur sculptures, the bright stores, and the restaurants… One glorious day West Adams Boulevard will have a Barnes & Noble too, across from Banana Republic, across from Restoration Hardware Baby & Child, next to a Club Monaco, and I’ll be able to remove the bars from the windows.
My nimble feet take me to the Santa Monica Place mall in no time. Why? I cannot tell. These stores are off-limits. Ted Baker especially, and yet… Sweet Southern Baby Jesus, my heart stops. That jacket in the front window is downright absolutely and utterly fantastic. Purple velvet. That’s a dare. Why, with my pink and ivory skin tone? How expensive could it be? Probably a lot, but what’s a man to do when he has a need for purple?
I stick my nose to the glass. I bet it smells of freshly baked blueberry and lavender pie. Should I pop in and check the tag? I close my eyes. If I had that jacket, I’d be the envy of the entire planet. Short, blond, fit homosexual changes the rules of what it means to dress well in Southern California, would read the cover of Details, and you will find me grinning inside, sat on a high chair in the manner of a young debutant, dressed to impress in my purple jacket.
Alas, I’m poor. Poorer than Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink. Regardless of what the movie writers wanted you to believe, fashion wasn’t made for poor people. I’m twenty-two thousand dollars in credit card debt, still five years away from paying off my student loans, twenty-five years away from paying off my underwater mortgage, and in a dead-end job working as a sales representative at a call center. I don’t need to see the price of that jacket. What I need is to go back to work and… Oy, it isn’t velvet. It’s actually wool. At least five hundred, if not a thousand dollars… Maybe they will put it on sale next week. I saw once these shoes at Cole Haan at the Westfield in Century City for two-hundred and twenty-eight dollars, from five hundred and seventy-two… Did I buy them? No, I drove all the way to Off-Broadway, in hopes of finding them there for twelve ninety-nine. I didn’t, of course. And because I was too embarrassed to leave empty-handed, I bought a pair of Skechers instead.
I start walking. Dressing up in that purple jacket would be like wearing Cendrillon’s gold and silver dress to the ball. I’d be the handsomest man, and the prince would choose me, wouldn’t he? If only the birds flew down from the sky to make me a purple trousseau. Imagine me, singing and dancing covered in vermin—seagulls and crows, mice, and opossums, quarreling in a rush to make me the best-dressed man in all of Los Angeles. I’d be like the little cockroach Martina, from the Cuban tale, who put on some makeup and stepped out to sweep the front of her house. Before she knew, she got a husband. That jacket would for sure earn me a husband, wouldn’t it? Any husband, I wouldn’t be as picky as cockroach Martina. A dog or a cat would do. He wouldn’t even need to be handsome. He would only need to be alive… Oy, that’s a lovely long-sleeve denim shirt, I stop at Eton. If it’s under a hundred, I’ll buy it. Even if it means I’ll have to nourish out of grass seeds for a week.
I enter the store. “I’m only browsing,” I announce to the first employee that catches my eye. You’re welcome to offer me an employee discount, though, I add telepathically.
Smile, always smile, Charlie, and never forget to… Shoot, here she comes. I never feel more insignificant than when I shop.
“Take me straight to the sales rack,” I demand.
Not much in here… This one costs only a hundred and seventy-five. If I wanted to rock the look of the fat detective from The Wire, I’d buy it.
C’est la vie, Martina, I laugh, on my way out. Oublie le chien et le chat. Tu vas épouser le souris.
You better get used to me dropping phrases in the language of Voltaire and Diderot. I spent a whole year in France in my early twenties, and I do my Duolingo religiously every morning, après mon café-au-lait, assis sur la cuvette. It is not vulgar if you say it in French.
Oy, I’m already five minutes late. I better hurry. My life isn’t too bad, is it? I may be broke, and I may be wasting my English major working at a call center for ten dollars an hour plus commissions, but right now I’m window-shopping in downtown Santa Monica. That’s a far ride from Leitchfield, Kentucky, n’est-ce pas? Think of the poor gays in Uganda, getting killed and not because they chose to wear white shoes after Labor Day. They probably can’t even go window shopping at all. Well, they must have shops too in Africa. Assuming they don’t is racist, but probably they don’t have many options, do they? Probably all they have is Old Navy.
I may not be able to afford Ted Baker, but at least I have options. I have Nordstrom Rack. I have Marshall’s. I have plenty of reasons to be happy and live a productive life.
Breathe in, Charlie. Fill your lungs with the manly smell coming from the Abercrombie and Fitch store. Delight yourself in the visuals: Women from the midwest wearing spiky hairdo’s as if it was 1990s all over again. College students dressed in sweatpants. Man buns. Man buns everywhere. Saudi brides… Under their abayas, they’re all wearing Dior. I need to befriend one.
Oh, crap. It’s now ten after. I’ll just go super fast to the GAP.
At the GAP, I run my fingers over the clothes from the discount section… This is a handsome jeans jacket, mighty light and classic. How much is it? A hundred and twenty-nine. Fuck me, I cannot even afford the GAP… Now, could that gentleman over there notice how good I look in it and offer to buy it for me? Perchance. How old is he? Fifty-five? Sixty? He has the shabby surfer look of a west-sider with a two-to-three-hundred-thousand-a-year income. His wife looks amazing in those yoga pants… When he crosses eyes with me, I’ll be ready to smile… There you go. He nodded back. That’s a good sign.
Oh, I know, I shouldn’t be thinking of trapping rich men when I have a date tomorrow, but how else will I get the money to buy clothes? I’m totally broke. I need to come up with $900 by the end of the month to pay my mortgage because my stupid roommate left without paying his share of the rent. And If I don’t find a new roommate soon, I’ll have to come up with the entire amount for the next month too.
That jackass. He left three months of unpaid cable bills too.
“But Charlie,” he cried. “I need Showtime!”
“Kurt,” I remember I said in my calmer voice, the one I reserve for rational conversations with highly emotional people, “we can order Nurse Jackie DVDs through Netflix.”
“But the mail takes too long! And they don’t have the latest season!”
Well, probably the one who cried for Nurse Jackie DVDs was me. Kurt is quite manly, he’d never cry. He probably burped his response to my hysterical claims that we couldn’t afford to continue paying for cable, then blew out some air forcing me to smell what he had eaten for breakfast.
I shouldn’t have given him back his deposit. I shouldn’t have fallen in love with his perfectly round straight ass either. The tattoos on his big, bulging arms and the mustache were a clear sign that he wasn’t honest. When I asked him what he did for a living, and Kurt said that he worked the register at the Wienerschnitzel in Ladera Heights, I also shouldn’t have replied: “You do? How intriguing!”
No, I shouldn’t have opened the doors of my fabulous two-bedroom, 950 square feet craftsman in West Adams to that half-black, half-Japanese, one hundred percent stud jughead.
“I don’t have AC,” I remember I said during the interview, six months ago. “Will that be a problem?”
I had to be honest about that. You cannot begin what promises to be a long and steady relationship with a man you’re dying to give a blowjob with lies, can you?
“When it gets too hot, I just strip to my underwear and open the windows” Kurt replied.
My, the vision of this racially ambiguous young man in his tighty whities opening the fridge on a hot summer day, then inserting his hand to scratch his left butt cheek, turn around and say, “we’re out of beer, Charlie,” crossed my mind like the vision of a flying saucer saving humanity must have crossed Ron Hubbard’s. The vision of Kurt lying on the couch watching TV, his boxers rolled up on his strong legs well beyond decency, his hairy chest, the musky scent of his manly armpits filling up the room; the vision of Kurt swiping left and right photos of chicks on Tinder while reaching inside his basketball shorts to stretch his penis… I didn’t interview anyone else. I immediately deleted the ad from Craigslist, forgot about Kurt’s credit check application, and begged the Lord that he would have enough money to pay a deposit or at least let me see him naked from time to time.
It took him two months to pay his half-month deposit, and in half a year, not even once I had the chance to see that jerk in his underwear, barely a couple of times shirtless. He never washed a dish. He never cleaned the bathroom. He ate my food, drank my booze, and used all my beauty products. He’s twenty-eight and straight, for God’s sake. Why in the world would he want to use my La Mer rejuvenating crème?
Many a night I spent pressing a pillow against my ears while he had sex with those stiletto-wearing white girls he picked up at the clubs in Hollywood.
And the one time I brought home a trick, he dared to judge me.
“You guys are gross.”
Coming from a guy that cleaned his buggers under the sofa, I shouldn’t have paid much attention. Still, the day he gave notice, my heart bled a little.
“Where are you moving to?” I asked, brushing a tear before he could see it.
“Hermosa. This girl I met has a pad half a block from the beach. She wants the meat, bro,” he said, grabbing his crotch. “What’s a man going to do?”
My eyes must have widened the same way as Gary Oldman’s when he saw the blood in Keanu Reeves’ razor in Dracula, for he started laughing.
Oh, I wanted the meat too. I wanted the whole pig, not just the sausage.
Kurt left me with over five hundred dollars in unpaid bills, a kit to grow marijuana using UV lamps, and a freezer that weighs a ton and occupies half the space in my garage which I bought online on a whim, because Kurt suggested once that if he and I were going to work out together, I would need to start eating better, and who had the time to cook? “You wake up at five thirty to be at the call center by seven,” he reminded me. “You’re always so tired by the time you come home, we always end up ordering pizza.” He proposed cooking our meals one week in advance and freezing them. I agreed, thinking that one thing would lead to having showers together.
“Kurt, bro, what d’you think we should have tonight, boeuf bourguignon or chicken piccata?” I imagined myself I’d say, drenched in sweat, wearing a band on my head and my new shorts from Lululemon as we walked home from the gym.
We worked out together just once, but Kurt ate most of the meals I prepared. Now he’s gone, the freezer is empty, and I still don’t know what I should wear tomorrow for my date with Jignesh.
I paid over a thousand dollars for that stupid freezer. I should be able to sell it for at least nine hundred.
That could more than pay for the purple jacket.
Screw it, I think, putting away the garments I was about to enter with into the dressing room. I refuse to live the life of a poor person. First impressions are incredibly important, and I need to give my Indian prince my mighty best.
I leave the GAP and walk back to the mall, as determined as Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman when he gets to the factory to confess his love to Debra Winger… The purple jacket is not a whim. It’s an investment. Oy, my lunch hour ended thirty minutes ago, I better hurry.
“I’m doing this in the name of love,” I’ll explain to Tunisha, my supervisor. She’s black, therefore on CP time. She’ll understand.
“How romantic!” I bet she’ll exclaim when I explain her about my date tomorrow.
“We met online,” I’ll say, pulling my headset out of my drawer, as if ready to resume work. She’ll stop me with her exquisitely manicured hand before I could make the first call, and after I compliment the color of nail polish she chose for the day, I’ll continue: “We’ve been sexting for three days. He’s Indian. He’s thirty-four. He’s tall, muscular, and incredibly attractive. He’s an accountant and, wait for this, Tunisha, wait for this: he writes too!” Here she’ll scream, and start jumping, the same way all women do under these circumstances, then she’ll swat my shoulder with those big hands of her, hopefully hard enough so I can sue the company for harassment.
It is true, my Indian prince writes. He sent me one of his novels. I couldn’t read more than two pages—not my style, I suppose—but I checked the plot in Wikipedia. I’m sure he wrote the entry, himself, it was nothing but praise. In any case, I told him that I’m looking forward to reading the rest of his work and that I admire his discipline. I certainly didn’t lie when I said that, each brick is apparently over five hundred pages. I have been working on my screenplay for the last six years, and I haven’t been able to type more than twenty pages. I normally stare at the screen for half an hour, then browse for free porn and jack off, then stare back at the screen for a little longer.
“You need a boyfriend,” my friend Lucille said, during her last intervention. “That will boost your imagination.”
“What I need is a husband,” I replied, lifting my cup of coffee with my pinkie upwards, trying to outwit her.
She forcibly agreed.
“Oh, honey,” I imagine I’ll say to my millionaire consort as I lay down on the living room couch after work—in reality, racing through the crowds at the Third Street Promenade back to Ted Baker. “I saw a fabulous jacket today. Purple. But it was too expensive and I—How did you know?” I’ll gasp when he offers me the jacket.
“I bought an extra-small too, in case the small is too big,” he’ll say, offering me a second jacket. He will get a thousand kisses as a reward… Kisses? Ha! I would rip off his clothes and mount him right there, right on our Mitchell Gold and Bob Williams button-tufted Chester couch, right after putting my new purple jackets away in the closet, so they wouldn’t wrinkle, and laying a large towel from Frette to cover the expensive couch so we wouldn’t have to clean it afterwards. We would fuck so much, my billionaire husband and I. Once every four hours, twice before breakfast on Sundays. “I love you so much, William Andrew Jignesh Vanderbilt-Rockefeller,” I’d whisper in his ear as I caress the hair on his head and feel his big pectoral muscles. “You and your black American Express. Go on, slide it down my ass crack and I’ll make those ca-ching, ca-ching sounds that make you so horny!”
Jignesh must have some weird, unpronounceable, Indian last name, of course, but I don’t know any rich Indian last names.
I finally reach the mall and pop again into Ted Baker. I fetch the jacket without checking the price then walk straight to the fitting rooms to try it on. Even for me, small is too small. Stupid English people—don’t they have cows to feed off in Britain? What do they eat? Polluted London air? I try on the medium. It fits perfectly. I look myself in the mirror. I look so handsome, I’m sure no one would care about my horrible voice anymore. I reach then for the price tag… Please, Baby Jesus, make it a dollar.
One thousand, six hundred and seventy-five, plus tax.
It would be a terrific investment, yes, I put the jacket back on the rack, and I totally deserve it, I start walking towards the door, but I better wait until I marry.
“I just wanted to know what it felt like,” I say to the employee as I exit the store. He nods politely.
Tunisha didn’t care about my date. One would think that a woman that spends as much money on her nails as she does would have a slice of empathy. She put me on overflow, meaning that I probably won’t receive any leads for the rest of the afternoon, and then gave me another warning: next time I’ll be on overflow for a whole week. Fine, I wasn’t going to reach my sales goal this month, anyway.
I spend the next hour browsing the Ted Baker site for sales.
Jignesh isn’t too handsome, I stare at his picture, but he sounds smart. He must be if he writes. There are things more important than looks in this world. For instance, money. As an accountant, he must be making eighty thousand a year as a bare minimum. I’m hoping for a hundred and fifty. Two hundred? Oh, boy, what would I do with all that money?
Sudden cheering. Yasmeen, in the cubicle next to mine just closed a $25,000 sale. Everyone rushes to congratulate her.
The girls in this office are insufferable.
I know Jignesh’s photo is not recent. He can’t fool me. I’ll add three years to his thirty-four—and then ten pounds to his weight, to be on the safe side. The important thing is that he has money. And I need a boyfriend with lots of money. I’m like a Jane Austen heroine, raised by loving parents, with a handsome countenance, good, old-fashioned manners, and a kind heart, but in every respect unable to provide for myself or actually willing to. And I don’t fancy receiving orders. Tunisha should be receiving orders from me and not the opposite. Just because she has an MBA in Finance. What happened to male privilege?