Monologue Of An Unemployed Live-in Boyfriend

Wow, you look so tired from working two jobs all day. Waitressing and working at Macy’s sure takes a toll, huh? I wish I could work a mind numbing, soul crushing 12 hour shift, but alas, I must resign myself to lying on your couch in a glassy eyed fugue state. The horror of torpor! My lifestyle is like an overweight middle aged woman on disability, like a homeschooled toddler, like a dead turtle in a shoebox. More than anything, I wish I could pull my weight, believe me, but forces beyond my control have condemned me to watching all the Nightmare on Elm Street movies using your Netflix account. By the way, I moved Jane Eyre and The Business of Being Born to the end of your queue to make room for every season of Batman: The Animated Series.

Guess what I’ve been doing all day — watching Intervention, that’s right. You know me so well, and that’s why I love you. Oh I’ve skimmed through Craigslist job postings a few times between episodes, but, hon, no one’s hiring creative writing majors right now. It’s the economy. The recession is killing all the creative writing jobs, so, you know, it’s really hard for young people right now. If it’s anyone’s fault I don’t have a job, it’s Obama’s — just kidding, I’m sure he’s trying his hardest. It’s the 1% that’s the problem; they’re not hiring right now because they want the economy to crash so the GOP wins the election. Why are you looking at me like that? Hey, guess what? I love you.

Did you see all my new tweets? Seems like the quality of my tweets rises in direct correlation with the amount of free time I have. Like my tweets are so amazing at this point, I think I should publish them as a book of tweets called Brad’s Hilarious Tweets. Is there a job where I can just tweet all day about TV shows I like? Someone should hire me for that job. Today, I acquired two new followers, so now I have 36 in total. I’m a veritable mediawhore like in that Gary Shteyngart book. You wouldn’t believe how much time I have to read now, especially because you’re not here to distract me with all your boring stories about work, like ‘blah blah blah’; who cares? Also, I started a blog where I review old Playstation 1 video games. The first entry’s about Small Soldiers: The Game.

This is going to sound bad, so don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should probably go to the grocery store more often. You have to understand you’re in a relationship now, and that means we have to accommodate each other’s individual needs like, for example, I consume hundreds of dollars of food each week, enough food to feed an adult grizzly bear, enough food to kill that fat guy at the beginning of Se7en, enough food to feed a dozen Sudanese refugees for a month. And I, for my part, will continue to accommodate your needs like sex and witty conversation before sex, which I’ve always fulfilled because I’m a thoughtful caring boyfriend. Of course, you already knew that, but I want to emphasize it because sometimes I think you forget.

You should get Totino’s Party Pizzas. You should get at least twelve Totino’s Party Pizzas. I want the freezer to be stacked top to bottom with Totino’s Party Pizzas. If I see a bag of frozen green beans in the freezer, I’m going to throw it out to make room for Totino’s Party Pizzas. You and your gross vegetables; oh my dear sweet lady, you are so dumb sometimes.

Speaking of Party Pizzas, could you please stop harassing me about how much weed I smoke? The constant dressing-down hurts our relationship and reduces my self-esteem. It’s not my fault I have crippling anxiety that can only be alleviated by brain melting doses of THC. I know you think you’re helping, but by criticizing my pot smoking, you only further exacerbate my anxiety, which forces me to smoke even more in order to return my mood to peaceful homeostasis. You just don’t understand how stressful my life is — I don’t have a job, I’m criticized for not having a job, I have thousands of dollars of credit card debt, my ex keeps asking for child support — which I appreciate you paying for, by the way. The only way to relieve all this pressure is through marijuana, my dear, and of course, by kissing your face. Hey, guess what? I love you.

Look, I understand your concern, but you’re not my mom. I don’t need you to drive me from business to business to submit job applications and résumés like I’m a child. I don’t need you waking me up for job interviews (as if I couldn’t have woken up eventually on my own, God!). It’s emasculating. It’s condescending. I can do it myself. Sometime. Eventually. But the more you hassle me about finding a job, the less motivated I am to do so — it’s just how I am. I don’t like expectations. Just when you stop expecting anything from me, that’s when I’ll surprise you by landing a high paying job as the editor of a literary magazine or an iPad app reviewer.

Besides, I have so many factors working against me. Women are better equipped to succeed in America’s information economy, and there are more educated career-minded women than ever before. It’s easy for you to patronize (matronize?), but my gender’s not designed for all these jobs that require multitasking and good communication skills. You see, I’m not a lazy person so much as the product of a culture in which young educated white males are discarded like so much garbage. I’m an outmoded demographic, a victim of obsolescence. That’s why a growing number of us now find ourselves forced to live with our infinitely compassionate girlfriends, and hey, isn’t that a progressive 21st century relationship? The lady financially supporting the stay-at-home boy rather than that old sexist cliché: the boy financially supporting the stay-at-home lady? You’re being so feminist and empowered by paying my cell phone bill. Susan B. Anthony’s ghost is high fiving you right now. You’re like a sexier version of Peggy Olsen from Mad Men.

Okay, I don’t know what I said, but you seem upset, and that’s making me upset, so now we’re both upset, and we’re just dumping unnecessary negativity into the universe right now. I could be wrong, but I think you’re either stressed out from work or it’s, you know, your special lady time. Maybe if we have sex, you’ll feel better about everything. You seem even more upset now. I’m trying to be constructive, and you’re committed to manifesting needless conflict in our relationship. You’re being unreasonable right now. Can’t you see how unreasonable you’re being? Hey, I just thought of something. Guess what? Guess. Guess the thing that just passed through my head suddenly and apropos of nothing. I love you.