= /|/|\|\ = Dear M. Atwood = /|/|\|\ = I am your Heiress Apparent

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Andrea Coates
SunShine Coast
BC
Turtle isLand

I present to you my RESUME

Dear Margaret Atwood. My Name is Andrea Coates. I want your Job. I want to be Canada's Best Known and Most multiFariously Talented Writer. Not imMediately. ImMediately I want to be acknowledged as your Heiress Apparent. You don't have to acknowledge me as Such, not in those Words, not Publicly, not if you don't want to, not if you think that would be Cheesy, but if you could help me, if you could take me Seriously, that would be Much appreciated, Ma'am. The Rest I can do on my Own. Now, I'm going to tell you why I am your Heiress Apparent, and I'm going to frame my Reasoning as an Argument why I am nSfOW, not Suitable for Other Work.





People within [schools], who don’t adjust to that structure, who don’t accept it and internalize it (you can’t really work with it unless you internalize it, and believe it); people who don’t do that are likely to be weeded out along the way, starting from kindergarten, all the way up. - Noam Chomsky

My Problems with School and Employment, One the Preparation for the Other, emerged Young. A Willful, Colourful Child, I resented School. School with its Beige Walls. School with its Grey Halls. School with its Crowds. School with its Bells. School with its Required Activities. School with its Retention Tests. School with its Petty Social Dramas. School with its Demands. School Full of Fools. School Full of Rules. School, I couldn't stand that Place.

But I had to go, or so I thought, and besides, my Friends were there, so I repressed my Loathing of Confinement and by Eleventh Grade I was suffering from Panic Attacks. These would happen at School and would be triggered by Some Thing as Mundane as the Way a Guy's Head Band inched up his Head during an intra Mural Basket Ball Game, a Fact that confused me until Many Years Later when I understood that it was the Mundanity causing the Anxiety.

One Day, in Grade Twelve, I was sitting at my Desk, Class Room Quiet, an English Test in Front of me, staring at a Question, Zoned out on depression, wondering, “Why do I have to prove to People I don't even know that I know what this Material means? I know what the Fuck it means, but why do I have to prove it to Some un kNown, un Seen Authority?” The Answer that came to me was : “Because if you don’t prove you know what this Material means, you will get a Poor Grade and a Poor Life.” It was that in that Moment that I understood, for the First Time, Clearly, my being at this Place ( School ) at this Time ( the Middle of the Day ), performing this Task ( the Test ), was the Result of Coercion and Threats. Had it not been for Coercion and Threats that I would be punished if I left Class, I would fail HighSchool, I would not be able to get a "Good Job,"  I would lead a Life of Monotony and Poverty, what would I have been doing that Day, that Hour? Working on a Graphic Novel, a Passion into which I poured a Great Deal of my Spare Time? Going for a Hike? Reading a Book? Collaborating with my Fellow TeenAgers on Some Creative Project in stead of just getting Drunk after School to deal with our depressions? It was that Moment I saw that I was a Child put into a Prison and made to regurgitate Facts by the Lashes of Teachers, their Selves working beneath the Lashes of Government. I began to cry. But, no Sooner did I begin to cry did I recall that I was in a ClassRoom with Twenty Other Students and I was supposed to be working on an English Test. I didn’t want my Peers to think this English Test mattered so Much to me that I would cry over it, the Opposite in Fact, and I began to cry More. I had to get up and ask the Teacher to be allowed out of the Class Room to compose my Self. As he opened the Door in to the Hall the Teacher said I would have to finish the Test if I wanted a Decent Grade. I was choked with my Tears. I did not say, “I have no inTerest in your Goddamn Test. What has this Society done to the Beauty of Life that it requires this Fucking Shit, Day in and Day out, of its Youth?” In stead I walked out of the Class and stood in the HallWay and collected my Self. I would have to finish the Test if I was going to graduate and escape this Heinous Place, its oppressive Regime of Control and Conformity, and it oppressive Architecture repeated Town after Town, Province after Province, Country after Country, its Very homogeneity Evidence of its Ambition to Conformity and, thereby, Control over the People. I finished the Test. I got a Good Grade. I was a Real Bright Kid, I tell ya. But the Meltdowns continued, and ever More Frequently. I knew there was no Way I would be able to graduate HighSchool in this State, and so, at SevenTeen Years of Age, I went to a Psychiatrist and they put me on anti Anxiety Medication. The Melt downs Mostly stopped and I finished HighSchool amid the Top Ten Students of my Grade.

Following Graduation, desperate for a Life Free from Authority, I moved away from the Town I grew up in. Terrible Things happened. I blame a Combination of Youth, Anger, Ignorance, un Stable Relationships, Poverty, ilLegal Drug Use and Prescription Drug Use. Truth is, I don't think I've been More Fucked up in my Life than when I was on Prescription Mood Drugs. It was like I was watching my Life on a tV Screen. Though I had suffered before Prescription Mood Drugs, I knew the Cause of my Suffering and felt it Righteous. With Prescription Mood Drugs, my Mind was a Blank, my Melt downs alleviated, my Body repeating the Same disTurbed Actions I'd begun indulging in in HighSchool to deal with the Pain of trying to fit my Creative Nature in to the Limited Box of the Education System ( ilLegal Drugs and Promiscuous Sx ) but sans the Ability to Critically perceive my Actions or to laugh at my Self, Conscious, as I had been before, I was doing these Things to shove the Failures of my Society in its Face. I am a Creative and Beautiful Young Girl and my Society has failed to provide for me, my Abused Body attested. Before Mood Drugs, I did Messed up Things because I wanted to prove a Point. After Mood Drugs, I did Messed up Things because “I” had been taken out of the Driver's Seat.

Finally I just Totally lost it and my Parents had to come pick me up and take me Home. I love my Parents. I don’t blame my Issues on them - I blame my Issues on the Authorities behind the Public School System. Putting your Kid in that inStitution of oppression is what All Parents are xpected to do these Days, and with “Proven Results,” called “Jobs.” Mine didn’t know that in Side, in that TeenAged Place they couldn’t reach, I was weeping in a Cage meant to break my Will and that this Misery carried on past HighSchool - it left a Wound in my Psychology but it did not break me. My Parents have been, throughout my Life, Solid and Considerate People and to them I credit not my Issues - which were born at the inter-Section between Creative Brilliance and Systemic Control - but my Survival.

I also credit MDMA. The Story of how I got that especially en Lightening Tab is too Long to tell here - suffice to say, after my Nervous Breakdown, back in my Home Town, I took a Pill, headed for the Fair, and after walking Home with an Old Friend, sat at my Computer and began writing the Story of my Night to ride out the Come down.

Then this is what happened. Words written in Light appeared before my Eyes

I AM A WRITER

It made Perfect Sense : the Mood Swings, the Social Isolation, the inTellectualism, the antiAuthoritarianism, the Drug Use, the Sx Drive : a Writer was what I was meant to be. I had resisted as a Career Choice what was a Natural Talent ( I wrote my First Novel at Twelve ) on Account of believing, “Writers don’t make Money,” but there it was : I’d had a Vision - Money is no Object to the Visionary. To write was to be my Fate. I passed the Nxt Few Hours, until I could sleep, creating a “Resume” including All the Reasons I thought I should be a Writer.

I decided, in the Days that followed my Vision, that I wanted to be the Best Writer I could be. I thought, how do I make my Self the Best Writer I could Possibly be? Learn from the Best, I thought. I made a Commitment to my Self to read “Every Great Book ever written.” The First Book I chose to read in my Ambition to Greatness of the Literary Sort was Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, and it revealed to me just what Kind of a Writer I was to be : to write of my Life was to bring to Others the inSights of my Suffering and my Joys. In reading On the Road I came to understand that if I wrote a Great enough Book about my Xperiences as a TeenAger, speaking my Truth, I could inspire People. I could change the World, and for the Better.

I went off Drugs, Both Legal and ilLegal. I got my First Monogamous Boy Friend. I worked at a Gas Station and drove an Escort. I was EighTeen Years Old and lived with my Parents in a Small Town. I went searching for God. I Only had One Friend besides my Boy Friend. I read Many Classic Novels and Books of Philosophy. I xercised Every Day. I Portion controlled my Meals. I was a Little OCD, but I was Healthy.

Such was my Brain Washing though that after I quit my Job at the Gas Station / realized my First Monogamous Boy Friend was a Sxist, I enrolled in University to study Literature and Philosophy, the Natural Choice, in this Day and Age, for a Young Lady interested in the Literary Arts, don’t you think? Get me an MFA in Creative Writing with a Minor in Xistential Philosophy, the Focus on Nietzsche, and Wham Bam thank you Ma’am, I’d be Thirty Years Old, $45,000 in Dept, who knows if I’d be Married and my First Novel, published by a Small but Well Respected Literary Press in Canada after my Favorite Professor introduced me to a Top Editor at a Wine and Cheese Party and I said, “It’s a Novel about a Young Lady's Attempt to create a Utopia despite her biPolar disOrder, Nymphomania and Drug Use written in a Unique Prose Style that captures her Mind's Volatility,” and the Editor said, “Ah, Atwood for the Xanax Generation, I like it,” would be hitting Stands to Rave Reviews and Talk of a Giller Nomination. How Very Nice.

But this is how University went for me, Really : I chose a Small under Graduate College in Vancouver because 1) I get Anxiety in Crowds, 2) I disliked the Idea of spending Time on a Campus where Students would be going through the Same Decadence I spent my Teens coming to Terms with, 3) I’d read an Article in Maclean’s noting the Superiority of Smaller Class Sizes at these Universities. I arrived at the College Full of a New Student’s Hope and Vigor, Ready to impress and challenge mySelf and Others.

Wait … go back. Remember that English Class I cried in? Well, before I was able to graduate, I made One Last stab at Freedom from the Constraints of inStitutionalized Learning. I wrote the “FreeForm Essay” in my Grade Twelve English Xam in Run on Sentences. I know, Right? For this Flourish of Self iniTiated Creativity I was awarded a C Grade, the Only C in my Bouquet of As. What ever. Fuck School. Top Ten Any Way, Bitches. Only, on Account of my Lousy Grade Twelve English Xam, I had to write an Entrance Xam upon arriving at the University to see which English Class - the “Average,” or the “Advanced” - the University would slot me in that Semester. There, despite giving the Graders what had I hoped they wanted - a Clearly written and Logical Argument for Some Thing I guessed a Federal Liberal would defend - I wound up in the “Average” English Skills Class. “Xcuse me?” I said, and walked up to the English Department to xplain to the Dean of Admissions that the Year Before, of my Totally Personal Volition, I’d read Finnegan’s Wake. All of it. From beginning to End. And Ulysses. And Plato and Aristotle and Dostoyevsky and Franzen and Woolf ( and on and on and on - there being Little else to do in Small Canadian Towns ) and now I was working on Tolstoy. I did not b'long in the “Average” English Skills Class. The Dean sorted through, found my Xam in a Pile, glanced it over and said, “ AlRight. I think this is Good Enough for the Advanced Class. ” I thanked her with a Sentiment I would place between Gratitude and Malice.

Classes started. Having spent the Year before reading Xtensively in my Chosen Filed of Study, and Genuinely believing in the Value of the Socratic Philosophic Style based in back and forth Debate, I was not shy to question my Teachers when ever I detected a Gap in their Logic. The Teachers were Good about this, they answered my Questions Honestly and effectively, but I was getting a Vibe, a Vibe emanating from the Students ( None of whom I could say were my Friends, even a Semester in ), and this Vibe was - “Would you shut up aLready, Fucking Chick? All I want to do is to take my Notes and go Home and you are holding me up.” It occurred to me that my Teacher’s in Dulgence of my Enthusiasm a side, the University didn't xist to foster New and Brilliant and un Conventional Thinkers, to challenge Paradigms and start Revolutions - the University I attended was a Boot Camp for the Soldiers of the inFormation Economy, a Holding Pen for Spoon Fed and en Titled Children of a New Millennium - its Students to be shunted from One Fluorescent-Lit, Plastic-Chaired, Wooden-Desked, Person-Filled inStitutional / Corporate Environment to an Other for the Rest of their Lives and that was just Fine by them, they’d Never known Any Thing else. I realized that the Small Freedoms to be eked out by climbing the Ladder of Schooling and the Employment that would follow were to be Hard won by Years and Years and Years of being told what to do and how to do it, Some Thing I, as a Creative Writer, have Limited Patience for.

But yet again, Such was my Programming, I signed up for an Other Year. There was going to be a Creative Writing Course that Year. A Month before I was due to go back to Class, how ever, I began to think. I was about to enter a Class Room with Several Dozen Aspiring Writers like my Self. We were going to talk amongst Each Other, perhaps in the Introductions, about why we were interested in Creative Writing and People were going to say Things like, “My Name is Jud Moore and I’m here because my Poli-Sci Professor suggested it would help for writing Essays,” or, “My Name is Mary Thompson I’m here because this Class sounded like Fun.” When it got to my Turn, what was I going to say? “My Name is Andrea Coates and I’m here because when I was EightTeen I took MDMA and had Vision that told me that I was going to be a Great Canadian Writer,” and that was not going to endear me to AnyOne. I thought about lying. But then I thought, how can I lie about the Event that has meant More to me than Any Other in my Life? How can I lie about the Event that has given me Reason to live amid a Society whose Structure I resent? How can I pretend to be SomeOne I’m not when who I am is Great? I didn’t go to University that Year. I moved to Brooklyn where, among the Hipsters walking the Streets of Williamsburg, my Ambitions to Grandeur in my Art were not so unUsual and where I shouted the Freely written Poetry of Wasted Northern BC into a microPhone at Bars while the Musical Acts tuned their inStruments.

So, here you are, it’s Four Years Later, and I am about leave Victoria, BC for the SunShine Coast. I’ve been in Victoria for Three and a Half Years, during which Time I have been Sporadically employed in the Service Industry. I've started a Media Company. I've made Short Films. I've Drastically xpanded my WebSite. I've found Love. I’ve got a Draft of a Novel called, S.i/S:, which I am about to pitch and which I believe is the First Master Work of Millennial Fiction, a Feminist Canadian Epic that will shock and awe Young and Old for Generations to come.

But, I haven't got a Publishing Deal yet and I need Money. I cannot stand the Thought of returning to Employment or to School, for Both would be a Such Tragic Waste of my True Skills. I am an inCredible Writer. I could write for Magazines, but I balk at the Idea of having to Change my Style or Opinions for AnyOne. How could I turn over my Authenticity and Autonomy, Delightful as they are, and which create Works Spectacularly Original and Deeply intelLigent, to a Boss or a School or a Publisher who would have me present a Lesser Version of my Self to fit in and not rock the Boat and not spend my Time dwelling on All the Reasons this is inJustice?

1. I am Highly intelLigent

What is the Way, in this Society, to get a Job where you get to use your Brain? Go to School, of Course. Well, I’ve allready made Clear that Place was not for me. I have a Self Education in Classical Literature and Philosophy. My Vocabulary is Ample and my Critical Capacities are Cougar Claw Sharp. These are Necessary Skills for the Great Writer. To the Cash Register Operator, however, they are Hindrances. Being as Intelligent as I am, I Soom become Bored of rePetitive Activities - these do not allow my to xpress my Creativity and Spontaneity. Boredom creates a Block in my Energy, which is Tremendous, causing it to become pent up. This causes Emotional disTress of a Noticeable Kind - in performing Mundane Repetitive Tasks for Days on end, I Literally am aFraid of going Mad, or of driving those around me Mad.

An Other of my Problems with School and Employment are the Nature of the Environments provided for these Activities. Walls are White or Beige. Architecture is Straight-forward and Geometric. Plant and Animal Species are Few and Far between. As Some One who grew up in the Woods, with a Mind that responds Best to Natural Complxity ( hence my Fondness for the Psychedelics and for Dense Literature ) I find that the a-Septic, un Natural Environments Common to Schools and Places of Employment Stressful. My Hyper Active Mind, desperate for Some Thing to entrance it, becomes Lost in Fantasy, making me Prone to disTraction and irRitability. Going to HighSchool Drunk was a Method of coping with this Lack of Stimulation, and I still got A Grades. I am a Reader and Writer of Technically Dense but Lyrically Spectacular Literature. My Mind thrives in Places of Constant Organic Challenge and Beauty. A Service Industry Job or a post Secondary Education in a University inStitution, remaining in a Single Position in a Single Building for Hours or Days or Months or Years on End, repeating iDentical Phrases to Customers or iDentical Essay Styles to Teachers for a Pittance of a Pay or a Literary Style broken and re formed to conform to the Xpectations of the Establishment, this to me sounds Worse than Madness, Worse than Death, and there have been Many Days I have thought of slitting my Wrists just to be freed of it - were it not for my Knowledge that I am a Great Writer, a Writer whose Works will One Day be held to yours - and to those of Dostoyevsky and Austen - I would have done this Long Ago - as I stands, I still have SomeThing to live for. The Melt downs that happened to me in High School are Minor compared to what would happen to me now in the Same Environment - my Mind has gotten that Much More Powerful - that Much More Resentful of reSraint. Every Day I get Smarter, More inTuitive, More Perceptive, but the Jobs and School Programs available to me as a University Drop out, they just stay the Goddamn Same.

I work Best aLone or in inTimate Partnerships

I have a Life Long Aversion to Crowds. Numerous have been the Panic Attacks triggered by Malls, Festivals, Schools, Busy Streets. I do the Best I can to avoid these Places and Situations, but what is the Service Industry - where Society slots Pretty “ un Educated ” Ladies Such as my Self - if not One onGoing inter Action with the Crowd? The Only Time I am Comfortable in Groups of People is when I am High on Drugs ( and they have to be the Right People and the Right Drugs ) or when I am dancing. On this Account, I have considered Stripping. I don’t think Stripping would work for me. I do not believe I have the Patience to be pestered and hooted at by Sxists without giving them a Piece of my Mind. Stripping, it would not be Long be fore the Anger and the Sadness set in and I had to quit for my Health.

It’s Hard for me to “get along” with People. Oh, I’m Plenty Funny and inTeresting, allright, and I’m Very Close to the People in my Life, but these People are Few and Select. I xude what I call “Cougar Energy.” I am aLoof, Argumentative, Somewhat Aggressive. My Natural Tone of Voice is in disTinguishable from Sarcasm. My Humor is Cutting and Dark. I am unErringly Honest. I feel no Need to be disCrete in speaking about the unUsual Aspects of my Life. I radiate a Vibrant and Nubile Sxuality. My Tastes are beyond Pretentious. My Language a bounds in Poetic Flourishes. I have a Big Personality - too Big for Many - I scare People. I worked in Stores for Several Years but Every Day More of the Mask of Complacent Normalcy, Necessary to appear Amiable to People in this Setting, fell away, leaving Only who / what I Truly am : a Crazy Genius. “Working with Others” in a School or Employment Environment, I would at All Times have to be watching my Attitude, repressing my Natural Verbal and intelLectual Xuberance so as not to cause a Scene. The Effort it takes to repress this Vivid and Controversial Personality is not Only xhausting, it’s Bad for my Physical and Mental Health. The Threat of Madness returns in All Environments were I must be Friendly and subServient for Hours on End. I ride the Line between Genius and Madness and the Only Thing that keeps me from tipping over into the Dark Side, the Only Thing that maintains my Internal homeoStasis, is the Ability to xpress my Thoughts as they come. This I cannot do at Any Job whose Tasks are Other than xpressing my Thoughts, like Writing or Art or Self-Directed Business enTerprises.

The Only Place I work as Well as aLone is in inTimate Partnerships, and for this Reason I have considered having Sx for Money. Had it not been for the Money my Parents were Kind enough to give me over a Year ago, I Probably would have had to become a Prostitute Long ago. I am an Artist, but the Secondary Activity with which I occupy my Self ( besides the Obvious Stuff of the Day - eating, sleeping, walking, etc ), when I am not under the Coercion of Employment or School, is have Sx with People. Sx fascinates me. It is the Well of my Art. Also, it is Possible to earn Far Greater Sums of Money from a Single Sx Session than from Weeks of Employment in the Service Sector and because of this, plus the Fact Sx Work is Various and requires relying on One's Wits, like Writing, it has allways appealed to me More than Other Forms of Employment available to me as an inTelligent but “unEducated” Person. Alas, there is SomeThing Terrifying about sleeping with Dudes you don't know for Money, isn't there? As it is, Sx is SomeThing I base Lasting, Loving Relationships on, a Pleasant Diversion from Writing, SomeThing to write about ... to introduce Lecherous Men giving me Money would be to cheapen it, and, in All Likelihood, cost me my Partnerships.

I have thought that Perhaps I could do Data Entry, or Copy Writing, but these Occupations involve the Same Mind Numbing rePetition that is my Enemy in All Forms of Education / Employment. I am a Creative Writer. My Ultimate Pleasure is in making Shit up : Boom : just like that. How am I supposed to sit at my Computer, Eight Hours a Day, working on SomeOne else's Boring Commercial BullShit when my Own, More inTeresting, More inNovative, More imPortant Work languishes because I am not being paid for it? Money is not Worth that.

I speak the Truth, but the Truth is Slippery

Back in High School, I was aFraid of writing Essays for Scholarships to Universities because I believed to write in the Style fated to win would require a Sort of Artistic Prostitution on my Part. In Deed, I have in my Life, been More aFraid of Artistic than Sxual Prostitution; One is Nearer to my True Soul than the Other : ie : if it came to it, I would sell my Body so that my Writing could be Free. SevenTeen, I knew how to write in Propositions, Arguments, Conclusions, 5 - 6 Paragraphs, a Calm Tone, Proper Spelling, Grammar, Some Diversification of my Vocabulary, but not too Much ( Once a Teacher thought I copied a Txt Book ), to provide a Theme Humanitarian in Persuasion, I could do that, I could get $12,000 from a University by telling them about a Life Lesson learned while volunteering for my Municipal Election, but that wasn’t the Kind of Xperiences I had as a TeenAger. I was a Stoned Slut battling her Inner Demons, battling a Society of oppression and Conformity, and the Complacent Cheeriness Necessary to impress the Universities, Brazen before the inDigenous suffering Genocide, the Skids suffering Drug Abuse, the RedNecks suffering Bigotry, the Hippies suffering the Land, the TeenAgers suffering a Culture of Consumer AlienNation, and the Adults suffering Work and Failed Relationships, All the Abusers, the Addicts, the Liars, the Judgmental I saw pass me on a Daily Basis, Well, I would rather write of them that we might All face up to our dysFunction and over come it then Smile and pretend I wasn’t a Part of it. Maybe the Universities would have enjoyed an Essay on the hypoCrisy of Privilege, but at that Age, with the Xperiences I’d had, I couldn’t imagine it.

I cannot stand before Some Person and tell them Some Consumer Item is imPortant. I cannot go into an interView and tell a Boss I will be with their Company for Many Years. I cannot pretend I care about Customer Satisfaction, about being a Member of a Team, about getting up at Seven AM to spend Eight Hours a Day shoveling SomeOne Else's Shit for Less Money. I cannot say AnyThing but that which is True : I am a Great Writer. Write Great Books is what I am meant to do.

 

I'm Gorgeous in a Languorous Kind of Way

Pity the Beautiful. Or, you know, don’t. Beautiful Girls who make Money off it to Day practice Vapidity. To be Beautiful to Every One One you must be Vacant that Others might project their Ideals onto you. So the Popularity of Marilyn Monroe, the Somnambulist. By Popular Cultural Definition, I am an Attractive Lady. My Face is Symmetrical with Large Eyes and Full Lips. My Skin is Clear. My Body is Lean. I have Significant but Perky Tits and a Pretty Good Ass for a White Girl. I am a Talented Dancer. I dress with Flair. What this makes me is un Employable as General Labor, which, More than Any Thing Else, as a Job, I think I could handle ( I have been a Tree Planter and a House Cleaner ).  When I moved to Victoria, I made an Attempt at Employment in Gardening. I worked at a Gardening Store and attended a Class at a Horticultural College, which was Much Nicer than Any University I'd been to and fit FifTeen Students. One Day, I would like to live on a Farm, and I will contribute to it’s Maintenance, but Employment in Victoria’s Well-Staffed Gardening Industry would have required an inVestment in a Life Style of Dirt and lifting Heavy Objects and using Tools that is not mine, not now, and Never on its Own. I am an Intellect, Best at communicating inFormation. Words and Concepts are my Tools. I am Less Skilled with Physical Objects. The Physical Tasks I am Best at are Dancing and Sx, Free Form Activities conducted in Periods of High Passion. I tree planted for Two Years. I got a Bad Knee for it. My Body is not built for Xtended Physical Labor ( Cougar's Pounce and Leap and then rest ). Using it that Way would diminish my Other, More Notable Skills. I am a Lady with the Appearance of the Courtesan, and if it weren't for my Scathing intelLigence, my antiCapitalism, my disTaste for Regulation and Hierarchy, I could fit in with those Hot Bartenders at the Club. You can see why Escorting has allways appealed to me, but I have this Habit of falling in Love on One Side and challenging People's Beliefs on the Other - Common Enough Traits among Writers - not so Much among Ladies who make their Livelihoods at “Beauty.” My Lithe Good Looks mean I am Ill-Suited to Labor Career and the inTensity of my Personality makes me a Poor Choice as Human deCoration. I might make an allright Psychic, if I worked at it, which I will. But, either Way, I would make a Fucking Awesome Writer.

I have Ego

Any One who has worked at a Job that is below their Degree of Talent knows how Humiliating it is - how Much Pride it requires the Employee to swallow just to get by Each Day. Now, as Any One who has read my Blog knows, I have one of the Largest Egos on the InterNet. This is why I couldn’t stand the Idea of lying to my Creative Writing Class about my IdEntity - because the Soul that has been granted me by the Universe is a Soul to be proud of, and I will be no One Else but my Self. I am the Mountain Lion - a Fierce Predator - and it is inTollerable to me re press this Majesty for Various Sums of Cash. If I were to go for Employment in Any Position but the One I have chosen for my Self - the Great Writer - I would appear as a Very Big, Very Mean Fish in a Very Small Pond and that would make EveryOne around unComfortable.

I am who I say I am - a Most Fascinating and Prolific Millennial Artist and Intellectual. A Media Star whose Every Project is to be met with Celebration, Confusion and Controversy. To ask me to suppress such Vital and Varioous Skills for Such a Worthy Culture would be Proof that the System by which we live our Lives here on Turtle isLand is Broken beyond rePair. That we have failed as People deserving of the Blessings of this Land. To make a Lady like me wait Tables is to prove this is not a Meritocracy at All, but a Dictatorship, where Obedience to the System is paraMount to the inNovations that could improve it - which I provide for in my Work and which I am Ultimately Most Entertaining in delivering.

If Any One deserves Money just to follow their Dreams, it is me, for my Dreams are Worthy of the People of this Culture. With Some Money I will produce Work that can be en shrined in the Canon of Western Literature and Philosophy, as this is my Fate, given to me by what ever Gods there be.

So, Margaret Atwood, let your Spirit help me to get a Book Deal now that I need it. Help me do what I must uninTerrupted by Drudgery and I will show you and the World I am a Credit to my Art and my Land, a Writer yet unSeen in her Media Agility, a Personality as Big as Hunter S. Thompson's with a Far More Sustainable Life-Style, unaShamed of Glory, imPermeable to Sycophants, uninTerested in Gross Displays of XS Wealth and Fascinating Enough to be held to the Literary Icons of the 20th Century and beyond. I am asking for what I want, at Twenty Three Years Old, at the End of my Financial Rope, just as I did at the End of the Rope of Sanity - I have written a Resume not of my Work Xperience but of my Life Xperience with a Creativity and inTelligence that proves my Worthiness at the Job I have chosen - yours : Great Canadian Writer.

Thank you

Andrea Coates