When I started freelancing it was because I had been fired for the first time in my life. It was out of necessity and panic, and at that point in my life it seemed pretty clear that things weren’t going so well for me. Not only had I been fired, but I was newly sober, and still walking passed the smoke-filled bars that lined Portland’s rainy streets with a hankering for several shots of whiskey and a drunken dance-off with a stranger. I had no savings, since I had drank it all away, so I lived in an unfinished house with no stove, decorated with exposed insulation and nails springing from every flat surface, and with three guys who tended bar at night and tended to strippers even later at night, all of which would not have been a problem if one of them hadn’t been ejaculating into my closet. (No joke.)

Granted, there were silver linings to all of this: I was no longer tethered to the bottle. At least I had a roof over my head. All three of the bartenders were Southern skinny boys covered in tattoos, basically the walking equivalent of my wet dream, so if they wanted to spunk in my stuff they could have just asked or invited me to watch. Most importantly, I was no longer working at a job I didn’t enjoy, where I didn’t get any personal fulfillment, and where I didn’t get a chance to write. For too long my life’s goal that had been relegated to the back burner on my hot plate. At the time I hadn’t understood the power of positive thinking, though slowly I began to realize that poverty when you’re attempting to do something you love sure beats regular, old poverty.

These days I have a lot of shit swirling around my pot. I’ve moved away from the love of my life and our home of only a few months in order to take care of my mother as Stage IV pancreatic cancer takes over her body. I’m still poor. I’m learning that the depths of my crazy are far deeper than a shot glass. I could craft a complaint for every minute of the day, but what good does that do me? All it would succeed in doing is make me sound like a whiny, ungrateful reality show contestant, and it would rob me of the ability to enjoy the primary bitch-free part of my life: I write for a living.

Sometimes it’s hard to stay positive. But you have to.

Recently I was trying to look up statistics on freelancing in this economy, and I discovered one of those Associated Content articles labeled “The 5 Main Advantages of Being a Freelance Writer.” Now, I always view AC articles as the equivalent of generic, store brand products, which is maybe a little unfair. But thisMyTussin of Internet research had another pet-peeve of mine, right there in the header. ” Doing The “Write” Thing Can Actually Improve Your Life.” A play on words with write, in quotes, really? I had to see what was listed. I assumed the five would include having time to spend with your family, being able to listen to Crosby, Stills, and Nash at work, and being able to take pottery classes at night. Instead they were pretty run of the mill: flexible hours, being able to live wherever you want, a controlled working environment, income tax deductions, and the completely perplexing “Choose Your Own Level of Income.”

In Portland, our list went like this: being able to sleep in, having sex on the job, and feeling good about ourselves. We could only come up with three, but as we’ve learned with pitching ideas to clients, present only your strongest first. The other two would have probably included some mention ofDJing, burritos, Boggle, and body modification.

Things have changed. We’ve survived doing this for some time, albeit it always feels like we’re teetering on the brink of touch-and-go. Certainly if and when I’m stupid enough to have children of my own, I wouldn’t want them to live the way we lived out of necessity for a while there. But I will always want them to follow their dreams, in that cheesy, Hallmark way. (“The Benefits Of Freelancing, starring Stockard Channing, only on Lifetime!”) The benefits of what we do aren’t as simple as that list, and certainly they fluctuate in their accuracy.

I’ve often marveled at the fact that Simon and I studied screenwriting. Do we write movies? Nope. Do we work in entertainment? Nuh-uh. So were the umpteen-thousand dollars spent on our degrees wasted? Well, not exactly. We write promo shorts for companies, tiny spots that they can integrate into videos on their websites, informing customers what they provide. We write scripts for in-house training videos. At times our work involves pacing, dialog, and an innate understanding of how to craft a story arc. The lesson learned in this is that we never know where our craft is going to take us. Sometimes we writewhitepapers , other days it’s a press release, or a product description, or even a letter of resignation for one of our friends. So long as we’re writing and getting paid for it, we don’t care, and this path is not exactly set with traditional milestones. Where most companies have promotions and bonuses, we just have more projects. It’s fun not to know what the next gig is going to give us. The inability to just set our wheels on the track and wait for the next predictable thing to come our way allows us to really live in the present, which sometimes sucks (yes, there are projects that really suck, but, hey, every day can’t be Christmas.) We’re able to flex different muscles, and learn about how to adapt our words to each client individually. It’s a benefit I couldn’t have predicted.

Even though what I do to chase paper is identical to what I do for fun, writing for a living has transformed my writing outside of work. This is another boon to the job that I couldn’t have understood when we started out. After all, how does writing a press release really impact writing a piece of fiction? Turns out that the answer is majorly. Tiny technical details learned on the job get stuck in my brain mush, such as where to put an errant punctuation mark or the difference between complement and compliment. These anecdotes get integrated into my process when it comes to the fun stuff. Moreover, working with a wide array of people in different fields really influences my approach to stories, poems, blog posts, whatever. To use a tired, patchouli-scented analogy: it’s like a yin-yang. One side of my work informs the other, profession and play overlap.

Perhaps the most obvious benefit to this job right now is that it allows me to be here for my mother. I’m not sure that I would have been able to quit my 9-5 and moved across the country if my mom had gotten sick while I was “traditionally” employed. I don’t know if I would have felt the pull of family over the pull of health benefits and a steady paycheck. But being freelance allowed me to pack my bag and get home fast, without so much as questioning it. And being able to make my own hours has allowed me to attend every chemo appointment, sit in the waiting room during every doctor’s visit, and run any errands that she can’t do herself. My mother is a divorcee who lives alone with a variety of poorly-trained animals. She shouldn’t have to battle a terminal illness alone. I’m grateful to the guy who fired me now. He’s given me the opportunity to say goodbye to my mother in what I can only look at as the most wholesome and fulfilling way. I’m able to be of service, while also being on the job. Death takes no vacation time.

Simon and I are not corporate kids. We like to wear ratty tee-shirts, we stay up too late, and we like to blast Joy Division while typing at our desks, which are usually kitchen tables. In order to be sufficiently creative, we have to create an environment that fosters that kind of thought pattern. We can’t wear suits, but we can take conference calls with the kind of professionalism reserved for meeting royalty. We can’t clock in, though we can clock our hours. We can suck, but we can’t suck up. Fighting with the boss has often included expletives and make-up sex. And although some of our peers might get all starry-eyed and jealous that we don’t set alarms in the morning, and commuting to work consists of pouring the hot water over the tea bag and sitting down, there are plenty of trade-offs. Not having health insurance, the lack of savings, the fact that we seem immature, all of these come to mind. And while I may find myself listening to punk rock but day-dreaming of a spouse, some kids, and a well-manicured lawn, I wouldn’t trade this job that I love for any conventional American dream, no matter how much I fawn over the L.L. Bean catalog. (Shut-up.)

The real value of the work we do is simple, it still makes us feel good about ourselves. Being able to invest your passion in your profession comes with a weird sort of salary like that. The IRS might not understand when you label “being awesome” as a deduction, but, trust me, you wake up for work excited to start the day, even if you can’t afford a muffin. So here’s to work and play being united, to positive thinking, and to doing what you love. Turns out that even if you can’t afford a Miracle Bra, you can still feel like your job is some ridiculous miracle. At the end of the day, you can’t stick a pricetag on feeling supremely badass.

You’re welcome for that video.

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. And thank you to everyone who donates! It’s yet another thing I’m grateful for. I’d buy you each a bra made of diamonds if I could afford it.

Hire us. See us in action.

I am not a born nurturer. I have killed more plants than I’m willing to admit here, and my obese, mentally ill dog, named Snack, is proof that I can’t raise anything but eyebrows. I’m not particularly good with living things. Computers? Sure. Cellphones? Now that I’m sober, yes. Objectsd’art? So long as they’re also d’plastic . But I would never sign up to do anything professionally where the care and comfort of another human being was involved, and I can say this from experience.

About a year ago I was living in Portland, Oregon. Having recently lost my ill-fitting job at a green technology start-up company, I was destitute. Simon and I split cans of refried beans spread on tortillas for more meals than we could count. Public transportation was a luxury. I was down and out, overqualified for most of the jobs I was applying to, and not experienced enough to score any of the gigs available, most of which were waiting tables and retail. My friend John suggested I submit my resume to his agency. He worked as a home caregiver aid to the disabled, and made good money doing so. He was also 6’3″ and capable of lifting heavy boxes or men in wheelchairs. But I threw my resume into the pile and he put in a good word for yours truly. A week later I was interviewing with a soft-spoken, smiling woman who had an “Angel-a-Day” calendar on her desk and a personal organizer the size of a phone book. She asked me some questions after scanning my stats.

Would I be squeamish about bodily functions or cleaning up urine, feces, blood, or vomit?

No.

Would I be capable of spending the night at a disabled person’s house, making sure they were adequately prepared for sleep and ensuring that they were safe throughout the night?

Absolutely.

Would I be mentally and emotionally willing to bathe, clothe, and change the diapers of non-responsive adults?

My stomach was growling, “Sign me up.”

Would I be willing to start safety training next Tuesday?

I left that office with a job but also with an enormous sense of trepidation. I was sickened by the thought of pee, poop, and other human byproducts that didn’t come out of my own little body. I wasn’t very good at one-sided conversation, and I already felt weird about touching someone naked who wouldn’t respond (though my ex definitely prepared me for that sort of situation.) In short, I was too selfish, too stubborn, too wrapped up in myself to step out of my own tenement apartment to help another human being, even if there was a paycheck attached. I couldn’t give CPR. And even though my desperation and hunger would have led me into emergency training that following Tuesday, Simon and I scored two tiny writing projects within that stretch of days which allowed me to chicken out gracefully, and instead of becoming a home health care provider I became an only-slightly-less-starving professional copywriter. I still have an aversion to pee and poop.

Becoming a personal and home health aid requires more than a strong stomach. You need to be vaccinated against TB and a whole slew of other disease-causing uglies. A criminal background check, credit check, and valid driver’s license (along with a spotless driving record) are usually required to even secure a place in an organization. If you’re looking to become certified with the National Association for Home Care and Hospice (NAHC) you need to take a 75-hour course, followed by a competency test that assesses seventeen different skills. Oh, and there’s a written exam, too, along with observation by a registered nurse. Regardless of how dedicated you are to advancing in the field, you need extensive safety, emergency, and on-the-job training. Moreover, you have to be suited for this kind of work. High-maintenance whiners need not apply.

I bring this up only to illustrate how time can alter circumstances and perception. When I used to see a screaming infant in public I would say that I was going to go into the nearest restroom and rip out my reproductive tract. My mother would chastise me with a knowing smile and the statement, “It’s different when it’s yours.” Although I still would rather pass a watermelon through my cervix than a wailing, smelling baby, I think that my mother’s wisdom applies to my present situation. It’s different when you’re caring for your loved one. There are some jobs you simply won’t turn down.

The things that frightened me about taking care of the crippled in Portland disappear when faced with the reality of returning to New York to help my mom out as she goes through chemo. And even though she’s still nearly as feisty and able-bodied as before we were informed about the two-ring cancer circus going on behind the not-so-big top of her 4’11″ frame, I want to take care of her.

There’s a lot of this that I’m neither qualified nor prepared for. I’ve never studied how to cook, and the extent of my nutritional awareness stems from a college course I showed up to drunk, when I showed up at all. I suck at making a bed, and often over-soap the laundry. I don’t know how to take a pulse, other than not using my thumb, and I rely on copious notes and instructions in order to dose my daily multivitamin. I am not emotionally stable, level-headed, or capable of working “hard” on anything that doesn’t include a QWERTY keyboard or manual stimulation. I probably more closely resemble Florence Mills than Florence Nightingale. But I love the shit out of my mother.

I know how to make her laugh, and I know what kind of food her dogs eat, what kind of flowers she likes, and what kind of material she enjoys reading. (James Patterson. Ridiculous mystery novels. Gourmet Magazine. This blog.) I can fluff pillows, make milkshakes, and trade snarky comments about how hot Chris Meloni from SVU is. With all of that in store, maybe she should be the one taking a CPR course. As for me, I’m joining the ranks of those rockin’ two jobs, and I can’t wait to roll up my sleeves and get started.

Drop me a line: AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. Thanks to those of you who donate.

Hire us.

If you’d like to become a personal or home care aid, check out the government’s 2008-2009 Occupational Outlook Handbook.

My first job was as a clerk at a ski and surf shop in Levittown, Long Island. My dad’s friend owned the joint, and I needed something to do one summer, so at the age of fourteen I was put behind a counter of surf wax and goggles, with the goal being to sell sun and fun accessories to unsuspecting suburbanites. The fact that I was a vicious little goth probably worked against me continuing on staff, especially after the sun started setting earlier and school started back up. I had never surfed, didn’t want to set foot in the sun, and basically hated people. I wasn’t employee of the year, to put it mildly.

Sometimes we have to pay our dues in order to get to where we want to go.  Ian Curtis of Joy Division began in a factory. Sophia Loren washed dishes. Benjamin Franklin worked for his father, who was a tallow chandler. Now, I don’t think I’ve set my path to greatness by hocking hang-ten habiliments , but I like to see that the people I admire didn’t come out of the womb kicking ass, inventing a music genre, or professionally polishing puns.

Maynard James Keenan: Interior design and set construction

I’ve never shied away from professing my absolute awe of Maynard James Keenan. I admit that this began at an early age, and that the flint was initially struck when he was recording with Tool, but the fact that he’s been at the helm of three bands, made countless recordings, played cameos in the phenomenal Mr. Show, eventually co-founded a vineyard, invested in a restaurant, and owns a produce market in Arizona  — all of this while raising his son and avoiding the limelight — has kept me smitten. You would think that his first gig would be with as a choral director, jujitsu fighter, or inspirational speaker, but he actually began by serving in the Army, a rumored result of watching Bill Murray in Stripes. This was followed by a move to Los Angeles, where he tried to pursue a career designing the interiors of pet stores and eventually set construction. Instead he wound up playing stadiums, and furnishing the interiors of many hungry and thirsty people. Maynard is a testament to multitasking, and I would find myself more inclined to enlist if the Army found some way to incorporate his multifaceted entrepreneurship into their abysmal commercials. Or at least pay to use his songs as a backdrop instead of that generic, soul-sucking quasi-rock. Also, celebrities that blog about something other than their fame deserve to have their paths studied.

Trent Reznor: Janitor and assistant engineer

Reznor on the right

Before being strung up and forever emblazoned into my thirteen year old mind as a masturbatory fantasy, Trent Reznor was a musically inclined student with a penchant for computer engineering. Living an example of “paying your dues,” Mr. Reznor got an early gig as a janitor and assistant engineer at Right Track Studios. As a result of disinfecting he could demo his music, and he developed a reputation of being one hell of a custodian, on top of being a wholly innovative producer. Perhaps the title for his latest recording, The Slip, comes as a result of remembering his  acquaintance with Wet Floor signs. Cuidado, Piso Mojado.

My dad: Button maker

It’s cheesy, but it’s true, my father is my hero. I’ll avoid oversharing, but suffice it to say, his job is harder than yours. He’s in his sixties and he works full weeks, filled with red tape and retinas, macula and management. He is, and always has been, a badass. This began with buttons. At the age of eighteen he worked for Emsig Button & Zipper in New York City, where he toiled away for one summer, producing the very things he was trying to defy with girls. Years later, with prestige and success in his elite professional field, he still remembers working for Emsig’s, stating that sending the orders from shipping to the office with the aid of “those vacuum tubes” was the best part of the job, ’cause “the sucking sound was awesome.” If any of you out there know a thing or two about phacomulsification and the way they remove vitreous gel, you will find this funny and slightly ironic. For the rest of you, I hope that your parents were able to get the security clearance to go to the button lab and scope the new designs. My dad never followed that thread.

Rita Hayworth: Toddler vaudeville dancer

I’ve always admired Rita Hayworth, ever since I saw Gilda and Cover Girl. Something about her moxie and sex appeal spoke to me, she was less abrasive than Mae West, less vapid than Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Of course, I don’t have anything against modern bastions of womanhood, and I certainly wouldn’t kick Beyonce out of bed for eating crackers, but the old guard of pin-up princesses has always been where I laid my trifling female reverence. And perhaps Ms.Hayworth elicited this adoration from me as a result of her long career of charming people that began at near infancy. At the age of six she became a member of her family’s vaudeville troupe, The Cansinos, and danced for ten years with her father and sister before being discovered by Fox Studios.

Simon: Non-Nintendo paperboy

Of course no comprehensive inspection of the CVs belonging to those I admire would be complete without Simon. My better half, who writes, DJs, and plays Scrabble, who has kept me with him by impaling my heart on the meat-hook of his gaze, who has caught me in the non-dolphin-safe net of his laughter, began his career as a paperboy here in Norman. He can do nearly anything on a bicycle, but early-era Simon couldn’t quite keep his newspaper route beyond the age of twelve. Inertia, puberty, swim team success, and growing tired of getting up at 5AM on the weekends led to his resignation. Hey, that’s better than some of his friends, who simply stole the Sunday coupon inserts instead of going through the hassle of delivering them.

Non sequitur: Even though the economy is forcing nearly fifty percent of consumers to reign in their V-Day spending, Consumer Reports has found that a majority of people haven’t had their sex life suffer as a result of the financial shitstorm.  I don’t know if this is a signal that our sex lives have collectively felt a recession for years, or if knocking boots is one of the cheapest activities you can partake in, so long as you don’t make a baby. I mean, really, why spend the money on a date when the good part costs under twenty bucks? Valentine’s Day post to come…heh, heh.

Drop me a line, tell me about your first jobs: Ainsley Drew at gmail dot calm. And thanks to all of you who donate. Being an Internet pan-handler wasn’t my first job, but it sure has been the most rewarding.

Looking for words? We’re looking for work.

As a kid, when you’re asked what you want to be when you grow up, nobody ever says “a manager,” “an accountant,” or “the hot secretary.” My theory as to the reason why we all choose firefighter, astronaut, ballerina, or milk truck driver is simple. The uniform.

Sure, most of us will wind up becoming some variety of office lackey, and maybe there’s less glimmer and shimmer in being “that dude from IT,” but the real reason is ‘cause most of our nation’s workforce is required to dress the same. Even look at Starbucks. There’s a uniform.

And let’s just admit it, we all want to be terminally unique, or at least terminally ourselves.

When I graduated college I remember going shopping for so-called interview outfits. They were usually grey or black skirts, paired with a button-down shirt of subtle hue, and the whole ensemble was pressed, put together, and perched atop a pair of heels.

These outfits were boring as hell, but at least I had the confidence going into each face-to-face meeting knowing that my tattoos were covered and I looked pretty much just like everybody else who declined a glass of water and hoped their smile blotted out any resume discrepancies.

For a year as a paralegal I wore business casual attire that had tiny flairs of my personality, a sweater with skulls on it here, a pair of fishnets there. Over time the tattoos crept down my arms, and the mowhawk started to announce itself on my head a little louder, and I realized that I wasn’t just rebelling against the quote-unquote system or seeing how flustered I could make my conservative (and saintly) boss. I just was me. And I wasn’t doing what I wanted to do, other than getting tattoos and trying to look like a general badass.

If you offered me a book deal, or full-time writing gig, where the only catch was that I had to wear a bear costume every day, I would ask you “Polar or Grizzly?” We’re all willing to make sacrifices, especially those pertaining to our exterior, if we’re getting paid to do what we love. Feel free to disagree, but I’d say that if you’re balking at the idea of donning what our boss deems acceptable attire, you’re probably still in college and think the world is your oyster.

The world has all the gunk and grit of a bivalve, but to get to the pearl you have to have a solid shell.

I’ve learned a simultaneous privilege and hindrance to the freelance lifestyle, and that is the wardrobe. Sure, I can wear pajamas all day every day, or just eschew doing my laundry until my clothes fall away into rotted, scabie-covered tatters, and nearly no one will care (except for my roommates.)

After scoring a phenomenal client a few months ago I arrived to eat a celebratory burrito wearing an outfit that included pink leopard print tights. My friend Noah asked me, “Do you two, you know, dress for meetings?”

I can only speak for myself, but the answer is yes. But how I dress depends on a client. If we’re about to embark on a technical writing assignment and we were to meet with a site manager, well, I think I’d put on some conservative pants and a sweater. I’d look like I could coach a women’s basketball team, but at least that’s professional.

If we’re meeting with a creative design firm, however, I’d feel a little less inclined to put the visual pitbull of my personality on a muzzled leash.

You dress to impress. Not yourself, but the people who put food in your mouth.

Truth is, the clothes make the man, and not just by how you present to potential clients or bedmates. If you feel good about your appearance, you have swagger. Confidence can seal the deal as a freelancer, especially when you already feel like you’re the best at what you do. Shouting it out from your threads – and head held high – can help.

That said, I would kind of adore a Ministry of Imagery uniform. Maybe a jumpsuit for Simon, an embroidered French maid outfit for me, or vice versa. Or maybe something more along the lines of Devo mixed with a Robert Palmer video…

Take off your word clothes, write me at AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. A massive thank you to all of you who donate! It keeps the shirt on my back, or at least off of my back voluntarily.

Like It. ‘Cause masturbating in front of an open window just isn’t enough.

Buttoned up.

Dressed down.

Check out Dress for Success, an organization dedicated to providing professional attire to disadvantaged women entering the workforce.
”The mission of Dress for Success is to promote the economic independence of disadvantaged women by providing professional attire, a network of support and the career development tools to help women thrive in work and in life.”

As a freelance writer, you’re often required to write an inquiry letter, or cover letter, that you submit with your samples and resume. This letter is to be classy and original, witty without being glib, a brief showcase of all your good traits, with a come hither final line that seals the proverbial deal. In short, it’s, like, the most difficult thing to write, like, ever.

In my professional experience I’ve had to pen my fair share of cover letters, usually for administrative assistant positions. I’ve followed a formula that I was taught early on, and I’ve always relied on my ability to isolate details, about myself and the desired position, that play well together. Often this is reflexively helpful, if I find myself stumped for a reason as to why or how I’d be good for the position it’s often a sign that I shouldn’t bother to apply.

Being raised by a woman who, for whatever unknown reason, wanted to install in her only child a set of rigid and dated manners along with a fear of authority reminiscent of the musical Les Mis, I have weird and extreme etiquette. I basically assume I am everybody’s humble servant and, just short of curtsying, I will treat you like you own me…for the first five minutes I meet you. After that, unless it’s an actual job interview, the “fucks,” “cunts,” and garden-variety vagina jokes come out.

After an ex-girlfriend’s mother berated me, violently, for calling her Mrs. Ex-Girlfriend’s Last Name, I’ve become a bit more world weary and less inclined to manner my way to the throne.

What does this have to do with cover letters? Everything. The usual rigmarole, for me at least, is a semi-formal affair. While it’s no black tie ball — I don’t use conventional business letter formatting or, yikes, snail mail — I do speak to the recipient as though they are, say, Tony Blair. Or God. It’s nothing, if not professional.

But what about the boutique company, the small seven-person firm looking for a writer, the quirky and down-to-earth client who will hire you more for your personality than for your ability to wear a skirt suit and heels? Those jobs require an important and incredibly difficult part of the freelance repertoire: the colloquial cover letter.

I imagine this sort of tonal dissonance is encountered by adults writing PSAs for teens, or writers for Spin magazine when they interview a semi-famous band. (“Bro, do you think open source media is lame or rad?”) It’s a strange note to try to hit, the one between reverent and, well, irreverent. Here are the three key points that I have discovered that I can share with those of you looking to kick back, relax, and cobble together the informal letter that gets you hired. Just remember to send me a cut of your first paycheck.

One: It Is Still Like Football

That is to say, you should outline your course of action before writing the thing. As most high-school graduates have learned when they were taught how to construct a solid five paragraph essay, building the skeleton of key points prior to fleshing out the text is the best way to keep any sort of text concise, hard-hitting, and wholly on track. Otherwise you wind up being long winded, and the only job that being too talky guarantees you is to go and pick up somebody’s dry cleaning. Or maybe that’s just me.

Two: This Is Not Facebook

It is tempting to use the informal inquiry to showcase how spectacularly funny and hip you are. After all, you can write on the cutting edge, why not prove it? The answer is because this is a job, not a popularity contest.

Often as I was starting out freelancing I tried to prove my unequivocal greatness by submitting too much, an onslaught of samples coupled with letters that, in hindsight, came across as pompous and condescending. Of course that hadn’t been my intent, it’s just that, naturally, I felt insecure about the hiring process, so I tried to overcompensate. What I thought came across as phenomenally cool and revealing actually was overbearing and masturbatory. You wouldn’t masturbate in a job interview, would you? (If you answered yes I am hiring.)

The cover letter is a lot like a first date. You want to tell them a little bit about how great you are, but no need to harp on your ex-girlfriend, or what kinky bedroom games you’re interested in playing. Less is more, especially if that less is awesome.

Three: Profread.

Ha. Get it?

My fatal flaw (other than my insatiable sex drive and the fact that I’m a sushi-loving vegan) is editing my own work. I’ve gotten better at it, thanks mainly to Simon, who has the opposite problem of never feeling fully finished with a piece of work due to an addiction to scrutiny. I cannot stress enough how, in an informal letter especially, it is vital to make sure you’ve used proper grammar, perfect spelling, and on-point punctuation. When you’re employing a less fancy method of conveying how talented and capable you are, the last thing you want it to sound like is a fifteen year old girl’s text message from the mall. U r g8, yes, but make sure your future employer knows that you understand business syntax, too.

There are other tiny nuggets of wisdom: use a comma, not a colon after your introduction, use contractions to make the tone more easygoing, feel free to write “Dear” in place of “To Whom It May Concern,” and don’t shy away from brief personal statements. Basic stuff that seems like common sense.

Of course, you can write all of this advice off because I’m barely able to pay my rent this month, and I’m hoping that this guidance translates to my own professional success in the coming weeks.

If I don’t hear back I’ll let you know it’s bunk, and write a post on how to write the perfect desperate one-sentence plea that can be scribed in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard.

I’m grateful to everyone who reads this, but especially to you crazy kids who donate. It means a lot and it keeps me fed. (And sheltered, this month.) AinsleyDrew at gmail, because I have no hobbies other than this blog I will most certainly write you back.

Will Work For Food.

What I’m doing when I’m not doing work.

Prior to going freelance, every job I encountered had one thing in common: it sucked hairy baboon testicles.

I’m no pollster, and I don’t have a degree in social sciences, but I’d go out on a limb and speculate that the feeling that one would rather be having fun than working is more or less universal. Especially if you work a desk job, or find fulfillment in hobbies such as sports, Wii, Settlers of Catan, crocheting, and other activities that both don’t pay the bills and usually can’t be enjoyed during the workday. Getting up on a Monday is roughly as anticipated as oral surgery.

Even if you like your job, it’s likely you have that complaint. That one thing that will help you keep your head held high on the fateful day you carry out your cardboard box, filled with desk cactus, photograph, and word-of-the-day calendar. The one thing you’ll fixate on for hours as you construct your brilliant letter of resignation. That nagging thorn in your side that is at the bottom of many a five o’ clock brew.

For my own amusement recently I constructed a list of past jobs and my main gripes. It went as follows:

Surf Shop Clerk – It was my first job, and I got it through my parents, who were desperate to have me interact with something other than a Depeche Mode poster and reruns of Headbangers Ball. I was 15. I was a goth. The shop specialized in long boards and Billabong gear. The clientele were wannabe Spicolis. I spent many of my shifts doodling intricate methods of torture involving curved fins and surfboard leashes.

Video Store Clerk – For a film student, to work at a video store specializing in independent film is a rêve humide (wet dream for the Will Ferrel set.) The only complaint I ever had was that its location, on a secluded street in a somewhat desolate area of the West Village, was prone to gangs of teenagers with more moxie and homemade weapons than an entire season of 21 Jump Street. The kids would regularly steal the boxes off of the wall, not knowing they were empty. It was more of an annoyance to straighten up afterwards than anything else.

Studio Assistant – I worked for a relatively well-known, older photographer who often did the covers for publications including VIBE and Rolling Stone. A well-paying, exciting, and somewhat swank gig if I do say so myself. The average workday involved a lot of permitted recreational reading, answering phones, and running errands for the stars of hip-hop and R&B. I had a coworker, however, who took a particular interest in slamming doors in my face, swearing at me whenever I was in earshot, and blaming me for everything that went wrong, ranging from her parking tickets to power outages. I was young and didn’t understand the idea of paying my dues early, so I left. Foolish of me. By now I could have been in the clink with Lil’ Kim, or ridin’ dirty with the likes of Chamillionaire. Bummer.

Fish Monger – Take your pick. Any complaints I had are obvious, and would have been easily prevented if I had just taken five minutes to rethink the offer and chose to stick it out as a cubicle crony.

Paralegal - I would have had roughly as much success if I had become an assistant to, say, an astronaut, or a prima ballerina. With no legal background, more tattoos than tact, and a boss who was more patient than that Dog Whisperer guy, my main gripe for this gig was my own ineptitude. I probably would have stayed in that fluorescent lit litigation tank forever, if Simon and I hadn’t gotten back in touch. Instead I fell for him like Lindsay Lohan after one too many quote-unquote Red Bulls and put in my two weeks’ notice after pushing papers around and misplacing a notary stamp.

Assistant to the Owner of a Pilates Studio – I documented this early on in Jerk Ethic, but many people have experienced the catastrophe of contagious crazy that comes with working for someone who is mentally unstable. Between the “emergency” calls at 7AM on my one day off that pertained to her misplacement of personal items in her house, to the relentless, high-school level jabs at my hair and my outfit, to the paranoia that rivaled Ray Liotta in Goodfellas, I eventually realized that either she would need to go on Haldol or I would have to spend even more of my paycheck on booze. Which was nearly impossible, ‘cause back then I was a pretty serious alcoholic. Chicken or egg, your guess is as good as mine.

Now, of course I don’t condone complaining for the sake of hearing one’s own voice (unless it’s my voice, then it’s just fine.) I wrote this list to illustrate one crucial difference between working for yourself and working for others. Sure, since going off into this scary, shaky horizon of freelance with my partner in rhyme, I have had many a negative or less-than-pleasant experience, ranging from deadbeat clients to projects that fell through to editing jobs that rendered the most intriguing parts of a piece mediocre mush. But with every irksome experience on our own there wasn’t a whine at the end of the tunnel. There was a lesson. And usually a make-out session to make each other feel better. Freelancing is like that. Sure, you could kick, scream, and complain about everything that doesn’t go just so, or you can learn from it and let it go. It’s that cheddarific line of “happiness isn’t the journey, it’s the destination.” Only it’s more like, a successful business isn’t grumbling, it’s the note taking. And the tonsil hockey.

Don’t worry, I’m not going all New Age granola or anything. I’m still filled with piss, vinegar, vagina jokes, and general cynicism. But I’m learning that learning itself quells the displeasure of work, especially when you’re doing something you want to be doing.

As for the rest of it, well, don’t work in a surf shop if you’re a dead ringer for Trent Reznor, bro.

Surf's up, dude.

My boyfriend’s blog is better than mine. Seriously. I hate him for it.

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In good company.

Getting negligent with this. Probably ‘cause I’m trying to put food in my mouth instead of bile on your screen