Lady Contractor Life

This online chatter about a 2024 run from Trump, again, or Candace Owens, or the Rock, etc., is really giving me a rash.  Either other people are misunderstanding the severity of the situation, or…I don’t know.  If we don’t unfuck our obviously rigged election situation, it doesn’t matter what motions we go through, or for how long we go through them — we’re done.  The country is done, sold to the skeeviest bidder.  

Well, regardless.  The biggest real problem might be, and might have always been, an asleep-at-the-wheel populace.  The nation was originally intended to be one contract, as it were, binding in perpetuity a citizenry of, essentially, subcontractors, as opposed to employees or dependents, so to speak.  When you’re a subcontractor, they just say: here’s the job, here’s the pay, figure it out, yes or no.  And you say ‘yes’ and you figure it out, and invoice them, functioning with a high degree of autonomy within a context you understand, with reasonable risks and desirable rewards, both.  Maybe you work your ass off, and eventually sub-sub-contract so that others can work their asses off.  

When you’re an employee, it’s like a nanny state.  Sign all this shit, promise you will behave in these ways and you won’t behave in those ways, attend the company retreat and do trust falls with your jackass coworkers, get dragged along to restaurants you don’t want to, work your hours for your wage, lose most of it to taxes, get some of it back, practice plausible deniability on behalf of your department, gossip at the water cooler because you have zero incentive not to, you’re locked in this room with the other animals for eight hours a day whether you accomplish anything or not, blah blah blah.

Yeah.  No wonder this happened.

That’s why I liked fire season and heavy equipment delivery so much.  My boss, Tracy, would call on Wednesday and say, this truck in Phoenix needs to be in Pennsylvania by Saturday, it pays $1100 plus per diem, I got two guys in line behind you but you’re priority, yes or no.  And I’d say, why yes!  Let me just put my tiny dog into a fresh set of polka dotted pajamas for the trip and I’ll be right there.  Or my boss, Ike, would say, bring that fuel truck back to Idaho, swap it out for this one, drive it to Washington, it pays $300 a day, figure it out.  And I’d say, great, let me just load up Buffy’s tiny bed into the shotgun seat and we’ll head that way.  

Being a mercenary truck driver is pretty fun when you have a little canine living doll you get to take with you everywhere…is perhaps the unintended moral of that story.

Maybe that’s the real schism there, you know, among our populace.  Some of us want to be employees, wasting our lives around water coolers, and some of us want to be contractors.

This is kind of an interesting vein, actually.  I’ve been low-key psychoanalyzing myself this past year — it’s weird to have found myself sharply deviating from the emotions and interpretations of a bunch of people I know who share my same relative level of intellect and education.  

But tracing back, to the halcyon days before we were all bombarded with such enormous, unavoidable things to disagree about, I had made this shift in my thinking, from employee to contractor.  And thank god.  I look back on that paradigm shift as representing one of the most powerful a-ha moments of my life, honestly.  

Because employment-brain is such a dominant, default ideology, it’s not like I ever thought about it as a little kid and decided, ‘yeah, I wanna grow up to trade my time for money’.  That’s exactly what I didn’t want to do, in all honesty, but I wanted money as I got older so that’s that.  Next thing you know, you’re serially employed, and so is everyone you know, so you just think about things that way.  

It was never right for me, because I’m always that person trying to compress work into a smaller box so I can spend more time writing or exercising or, damn, just being.  But when you trade your time for money, and you try to minimize the time and maximize the pay, that’s called — well, in some cases it’s called ‘time clock theft’, but in its more advanced state it’s called ‘salary,’ which is actually kind of a bad deal.  Tends to actually maximize your time and minimize your pay, in my experience.  

So anyway, I can’t give myself any credit for having stumbled ass backwards into contracting, it was just a series of happy accidents, but it hit me like a revelation.  It was like Jesus Christ himself came out of the sky — imagine my surprise, I’m not even Christian — and put his radiant hand on my head and said, “Child, do not trade your time for money; trade your end result for money, which will of course take time, but how you arrange that time is your affair, as long as the truck makes it to Pennsylvania by Saturday.  And behold, this $1100 plus per diem will be given unto you, fourfold, eightfold, as many trucks as they have, fold.  And, my child, I will be ever with you, in the form of your tiny dog.  Do not neglect to change my little pajamas, lo, nor to pack my fleecy bed.” 

And I cried, and fell to my knees, and wept, “God is good!”

And I’ve never been employed since.  Ah…nope, that’s a lie.  Felt good to say, for a second.  I wish I could finish the story that way, but after becoming just happier than I’ve ever been, definitely more financially abundant than I’ve ever been, and absolutely freer than I’ve ever been, with contracting, life changed again.  I wasn’t lonelier than I’d ever been?, but I was feeling really really ready for a life partner, after ten years of being basically single, and the one thing all the contracting wasn’t doing for me was allowing me to ever meet anyone, or even hope to meet anyone.  

Plus, my boss Tracy committed suicide, which just wrecked me.  I mean, I didn’t cry or feel close enough to him to know what to feel, exactly, but…sometimes you just don’t know how much you appreciate someone, and how much they do for you, until they take themselves out.  I think I’m still angry at him for that.  Plus the job went away.  But yeah — I was just one of his contractor drivers, and the other drivers were mostly these miserable, sour grouches who spent all their per diem on steak restaurants and wouldn’t get the equipment there on time.  I think Tracy and I both enjoyed the fact that I became really competitive for delivery gigs partly because I’m money hungry, but partly because I wanted to fuck over those other guys and starve them out.  They were sooooooo shitty to me when I first started.  I loved taking money out of their hands.  

Anyway, even though I’d said I’d never be an employee again, I ended up applying for a job-job, as a truck driving instructor for a community college, partly because Tracy died and partly because I saw it as a way to sleep in my own bed more often, and maybe even acquire a person to sleep in that bed with me (besides Buffy, ie Jesus).  I mean, how are you gonna meet someone when you’re never in one place, you know?  I still had quite a bit of freedom — I could opt into as many shifts as I wanted, but I could take time off when and as I chose.  The pay was, like, really really good, even after they taxed the crap out of it.

It felt weird though.  I angled myself into a more contract-y feeling specialty as soon as I was able — teaching the online course.  That had less of the time-for-money transaction feeling, and more of the result-for-money effect.

(Oh, and FYI my plan worked and I met someone who sleeps next to me every night, and now he even acquired his own tiny dog, and so we’re like, insta-family; just a bunch of sleeping snoring bodies in bed every night.  Buffy snargles like an old grandma; Milo sort of honks faintly; Nick is quiet when he’s on his side, but when he’s on his back his body can’t decide whether to exhale from the nose or mouth sometimes.  I have no idea what I sound like.)    

Then COVID, then fire season ’20, then moved to Hawaii all together, then now.  We’ve all arrived together at this particular blog 🙂 

Interesting to reflect on, really.

But yeah, the more I learn about the Constitution, the more it seems to be this document saying, essentially, here are some basic parameters; figure it out.  

And none of that will be relevant, moving forward, if we don’t fix the election problems, and probably the erosion stretches backwards in time, too, longer than we’re aware of.  And the worm in the apple, the snake in the garden, seems to have come in the form of the Rothschilds.  And that’s interesting, because from a free market standpoint, Grandpappy Rothschild certainly seems to have launched the most vigorous business model ever, amiright?  Like: form an occult yacht club, infiltrate the Free Masons, place autonomous but loyal agents at every level of every government and industry, and conspire (which literally means ‘to breathe together’) to best affect against the interests of ostensible affiliation and in the interests of the truer, deeper affiliation.  

That’s actually why I’ve found myself becoming such a nationalist, these days.  And I’m white, incidentally, so I guess that makes me that most hideous of creatures, the white nationalist.  Only God can judge me so fuck off with that, but yeah — when the issue, the real issue, the actual issue is this global, multi-generational network of highly-placed people working in only their hierarchy’s best interests, which are overtly connected to an occult agenda and always have been — I don’t know what to do about that, globally.  Right?  Like, who can solve that?  No fucking idea.  But nationally?  They.Got.To.Go.  This is Sparta; kick to the chest; enormous pit; done.   

It would take a citizenry who’s not asleep at the wheel to do it, though.  And for what it’s worth, I don’t think any of us would actually object to the job and the pay if we were collectively in better possession of the facts, but of course that’s the bamboozle of bamboozles, there.  People are AMAZING when they come online, though.  I’ve been absolutely glorying in Tom MacDonald.  The rest of us out here struggling to administer one single red pill like giving a dog its medicine — like goddamn, I tried peanut butter, I tried crushing it, I tried holding its snout closed and making it swallow, everything — and that guy’s just out there, machine gunning red pills on full auto.  Who would have thought a RAPPER with a bunch of tattoos on his face would end up being the quarterback in this whole deal.  Salvaging an entire genre is the least of it. 

Anyway, here we all are, negotiating the construct as best we can, making it about whatever we’re making it about.  The mills of the gods grind slow but they grind exceedingly fine. 

Well, I’ve decided whoever made it through this whole blog deserves an absolute projectile vomit of photos of Contractor Burf, over the years, gittin’r’dun in every kind of situation. She’s been the best friend and coworker a gal could have. Y’all have a nice day.

2 thoughts on “Lady Contractor Life

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