Joanie Loon sits bug-eyed and yellow under a greasy blanket of hair in front of a laptop in the bedroom of her new downtown apartment, its wallpaper curling at the corners and floral in the ghastly sort of way, reminiscent of what she imagines the 1960's to have looked like. Her nails are chipped black and chewed up, fingers clicking on the mouse fast as a heartbeat as she groans through the pictures of herself on Facebook. Now that she's graduated college she has to find the most appropriate picture for her default. That's what employers do nowadays, the old people blabbed on and on about it. They Google the shit out of young applicants in search of bong rips, nip slips, and other evidence of drunken debauchery and general tomfooleries.
What does the Internet think of Joanie? Who exactly is she on the Internet? What do people think? How do they see her?
What Google shows is her Facebook, naturally, then her old Myspace, some vague webpage featuring a list of undergraduate scholarships, and--to her horror--her ONLINE DIARY, its description under the header reading: IF ONE MORE PERSON LOOKS AT ME I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD I'M GOING TO KILL MYSE--(cached).
She thinks about deleting it as dozens of blog posts flood the screen. This journal's years and years old, there's gotta be over a hundred entries. She'd have to delete the whole thing or make each entry private.
Is it worth it?
She blinks.
This time would be better spent working on a cover letter. This time would be better spent exercising.
This time would be better spent cleaning her room.
She picks up a notepad from the desk and pops the cap off a Sharpie.
"Things I Should Do Right Now"
by Joanie Loon
1. Apply to jobs
2. Attract a mate
3. Call a parent
4. Go poop
5. Drink some water
6. Take a shower
7. Make a new friend
8. Volunteer
She scratches that one out.
8. Give a bum a cigarette.
She scratches that out, too.
8. Join a Facebook group about Darfur (etc)
9. Learn to play guitar
She decides these are all terrible.
10. Dance like no one's watching
11. Let the good times roll
12. Don't worry, be happy.
13. Commit suicide.
The box of warm beer in the kitchen is calling. She retreats and cracks one open, tries to gulp down as much as possible. When she can't stomach it anymore, she puts the can down and burps at her reflection in the mirror, her lips flapping like Homer Simpson.
"Heyyyy," she says to herself. Almost half the beer's gone. If she can do this twelve more times she'll be drunk in like what, ten minutes.
She sits back at the computer, looks at the can and thinks.
Too much work. Too gross.
Back to the screen.
Why are all the jobs on Craigslist scams?
ADMINISTRATIVE ASSISTANT POSITION ENTRY LEVEL 14.00 AN HOUR EMAIL RESUME $$$$$.
EGG DONORS NEEDED 12,000 DOLLARS NO PHONE CALLS.
Yeah, okay, she'll get right on that.
She clicks on her Gmail tab. One unread message from her OKCupid account.
"Ooh la la..."
According to this email, she's just been virtually winked at by a user who calls himself "Stackhouse." She clicks on his icon and his photo jumps up at her on the screen like an angry boner. He's wearing a baseball cap and facial hair that reminds her of something from a Rorschach test. Her eyes narrow, assessing. What a shit-show. He's got a tribal tattoo on his forearm and he was too stupid to turn the flash off in front of the mirror. Stackhouse. He's gotta be like thirty-something because he doesn't know shit about the Internet. Everyone's a stereotype with a pulse.
She starts typing a message for him: "Tits or get the fuck out."
Deleted. Whatever. He won't get it anyway.
Joanie sighs into her chair and looks at the clock. Seven-thirty. Is that too early to start drinking seriously? The question depresses her. Back to Facebook.
Would Joanie hire Joanie? Probably not.
This is insufferable. Now that she’s graduated she’s not allowed to drink beer or be silly in pictures? Or wear black nail polish or skirts higher than the knee or reference The Smiths in Sharpie on her purses or say Fuck or Shit or Cocksucker or sit on the sidewalk or roll her eyes or gauge her ears or smoke cigarettes or spit in public even if she’s got a really big loogie filling her mouth? How the fuck can anyone breathe around here?
The oppression grips her bladder.
In the bathroom she pees while staring at her toenails, which have seen better days. In the magazine rack is her unfinished novel. She’s been editing it every time she takes a shit. Lately she’s been all sorts of wound up. How do people with jobs live? Does everyone make some unspoken commitment to squaredom once they hit the workforce?
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