If you recognize this posting, thanks for visiting

I sent this email to some people posting on craigslist. They wanted bloggers. I'm like, "I blog." That's basically what this letter says. That I blog and I will continue to blog and I will blog for you if you pay me. So that's the basic thing. You don't have to read it. It's mostly just jargon and lawyer speak. Just sign at the bottom and you can start giving me money. I can start earning money, I mean.


I blog all the damn time. All the damn time. Actually, I haven't blogged since the fifth because, well we thought the reason we weren't getting internet was because it was the day after the wretchedly destructive party we had in our loft at which most everything got tagged with sparkly blue spray paint except the tepee we built on the roof and the neighbor's screen door, which simply got ripped down. The next day, I went to church at a local Jehovah's witness building (I'll call it a building in the absence of a steeple) and then to a hardware store on my rusty blue bike and bought a little pizza cutter looking thing and set about repairing that screen.

And I was successful at that. And also with the cleaning. But the internet modem is right by the kitchen door and was soaked in a soapy brine of Olde English and cigarettes. I tried to towel it off with some toilet paper. The toilet paper began to make it's own paste. I made an egg. I tried to check my email. Little red X. Not Connected. I took the paint roller out in the hall and swept it over the words "Hipster Cornballs Vomit"

I feel like that was a rude thing to write. Plus, the cursive was sloppy and patchy. Otherwise, I might have left it up.

Basically, it came down to me calling Verizon. I was all ready to say "Send a technician." with the kind of sigh my mother used to make when the refrigerator exploded and the penny jar was empty. Or when my sister needed that leg operation. Or when my violin caught tuberculosis that summer it sleeted every day for a month. It was cold and we had no coats. We mixed Ramen fluid with flour to fill our extended bellies and make sleep bring content forgiveness. We prayed for Daddy's hangovers on Sunday while he scratched his balls at home and cleaned his rifles on the kitchen table. He kept a grenade locked in a safe in the basement "just in case it came down to it."

But Verizon doesn't care about trash. Not white trash. Oh, they might send their spies to rifle through your garbage looking for your credit card receipts. They might then use those receipts to include with your monthly bill little fliers about Netflix along with the splashy Cubic Zirconium offers your mother grew to expect and offers on faster, higher speed impulse buys. And you might spend a precious fifteen seconds reading them and a good two hours filling out the application, but what Verizon really wants is their money. From me.

Wasn't the Olde English. It was instead something capable of making it's own paste. A bill overdue. So I'd like for you to pay me to write something. So I can get online and do some blogging again. It's one of those signs for infinity sort of...I need to get paid to pay bill to write to get paid. Sideways eight. I'm stealing internet from the neighbors right now with much interruption. You could even pay me for this if you want.

Or go look at my blog. There's stuff on there too. I also take pictures.

www.rainyjane.blogspot.com


Cara Francis
(xxx)xxx-xxxx (number removed for fear of being recognized. I'm Batman.)
rainyjane@hotmail.com

This is where you sign:

X_________________________________________