Coltrane

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“I want a job, I want a good job I want a job that pays; I want a job, I want a real job, one that satisfies my artistic needs.”

Sid and Nancy

I tried the usual things, agencies, a head hunter.

Linked In, a contagion of job-sites, non-posted positions including “Whorish, Heli-waitress” and “Global News Fluffer.”

Asking everyone I knew. Ever.

Then asking total strangers.

Then enemies (“I don’t know if you remember me. I called you a vile paramecium at this party once?”)

Then pitching directly to spam folders.

And, living with rejection who blares house music and leaves filthy plates everywhere, drawing insects.

And his friends Shame and Terror, who are assholes!

Drawing unsavoury undergarments and posting them in the “Everything Else” section of eBay.

Selling nice things but photographing them by a broken blender and toast crumbs, so not selling nice things.

Cold-calling more than Willy Loman.

Sending a HILARIOUS CV with a straight one: base-covering, that is.

Into spam folders.

Asking former employers if they are dying to hear about my new ideas:

Teaching in the guise of the subject (Diphthong impersonation must not be missed!)

Rearranging galleries in alphabetical order, and having “orgy days” where viewers feel, lick and fondle the art.

Deciding that the “Over 95s” are a vital demographic and spearheading an ad campaign that feature a dog named
23 Skidoo B. Doo.

“Articulate graffiti”: Why tag when you could be quoting Erica Jong? #ziplessfuck

Letting social media _use me_.

Dance classes for the hyper-tense and jiggly.

Hot journo pitches like “10 Sexy Ways to Say Enough Already” and “The Web is Catching On!”

Selling plasma.

Advertising a “so-so kidney” on the dark net.

Starting a mommy blog about my ghost baby, Caspar, an unfriendly, mean kid. (RIP.)

Believing. And beleebing.

Exile, without cunning.

Self-injury.

Free-falling.

Remembering suddenly how all of the old ladies who work at the Bay are moved, incrementally, into corners and, finally, to the rear basement.

Then into a grinder, like Hustler
in the inverse,

Then turned into tough, grey patties and sold in food courts as

A Love Supreme.

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