How to Make Money When You Are Too Crazy to Work

Woman in a blue wig and owl mask

It is my sincerest hope that this post doesn’t resonate with most of my readers. I hope you can wake up in the morning, brush your teeth, pour yourself some joe, and work a long and productive day at your nine to five job, five days a week until you die… at your desk.

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But I wanted to put a resource out there for my readers who have bouts of “I am just too fucking crazy right now to work a real job.” Because despite what we may think, it happens to the best of us.

I have very good mental health. I wake up happy, I don’t experience any kind of explosive emotions (unless, of course, I see dogs locked in hot cars or someone chewing really loudly then, naturally, all bets are off). For the most part, I’m a pretty stable Sally.

That being said, all of my immediate family members are severely mentally ill. Like, screaming-at-mailboxes-and-threatening-to-kill me mentally ill. I also have PCOS and when I have that perfect combo of “daddy is stalking me again” and “I’m five weeks late for my period,” sometimes I get too fucking crazy to work.

I have had times in my life where my family situation, my health, or my work situations have been too much to endure. I have left jobs because of sexual harassment so bad I would have felt safer on the set of “Good Will Humping.” During those times, the idea of putting on a cute outfit, getting a Starbucks, and talking with all the scary people has left me noping right the fuck out of my job. But that’s the thing about life: crazy or not, you always gotta have that sweet cash to pay those not-so-sweet bills.

So what do you do when you just snap? Your fibro or anxiety or piece-of-shit boss force you into the world of unemployment? How do you pay the bills when you’ve had it with the nine to five, and it’s had it with you? Luckily, DG has you covered.

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Here are seven things I have done for money at my nuttiest:

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The Power of Female Economy

Woman holding a mug that says like a boss

“There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help each other.”
-Madeleine Albright

If you have been following my blog for a while you know that I am a businesswoman. You also know that I was raised in the foster care system, that I ran away from home, and was a homeless teen.

I have experienced a level of poverty you would not think was possible in a first world country. I have lived in abandoned buildings in downtown Detroit and have feared for my life from things like exposure and starvation.

I have broken into cars to steal change to get my dinner from a vending machine. I have eaten from the garbage. I have been bound to horrible situations for the lack of financial independence. I have been dominated and violated and I have stayed in these situations…for a sandwich or a cold piece of pizza or for a warm place to sleep.

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Needless to say I feel very powerfully about my right to support me and mine, and I feel very passionately about women having the right to support themselves and theirs.

You don’t need to feel sorry for me. I’m 29 and have so many commas in my bank account it would make your head spin. I have gone about acquiring stability in my life the same way I am making a living off of this blog: by unapologetically accepting that I need money and viciously defending my right to make it.

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Gagging on Christmas

A collection of gift tags

It’s safe to say that my husband and I come from very different sides of the track. His upbringing was firmly upper middle class and my upbringing was firmly skipping class to go to work ‘cuz I got siblings and someone has to feed these damn kids.

It was ten years ago this winter, that I trekked up to my husbands beautiful little mountain town to spend Christmas with his family.

But first, a tale from the Ghosts of Christmases past;

I was raised between the foster care system and the streets. Most of my Christmases were spent in the faded lime green or grey walled buildings of mental institutions visiting my mentally ill mother. We used to drink dixie cups of chicken “soup” that came out of the vending machine next to the coffee and hold hands across metal tables, carefully supervised. My mother would give us bright little drawings she made.

Other Christmases spent in children’s shelters and homes were more eventful. Socks, toothbrushes, packages of underwear, new sheets, and one year a boombox from the local fire department; my pride and joy. Need-based gifts were the name of the game and there were no complaints from me.

So when I spent my first “real Christmas” with my then boyfriend, now husband, at the tender age of nineteen, I was still fresh from the Christmases of my childhood and totally unprepared for what was about to happen.

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Dehumanizing Your Future Self

Woman in a hoodie

I thought growing old would take longer.
-Old guy’s shirt at the grocery store

As many of you know, I teach ballroom dancing. I spend a lot of my day with people in their 50s-80s, recently retired, looking to fill their work-free days or reconnect with their spouses.

I love spending time with the older demographic. They come in for their lessons, doze off to sleep, wake up, knit a scarf, make a stew, find a quarter behind my ear…and off they go.

No, actually. That doesn’t happen at all.

The Metzgers grab at each others asses and play Candy Crush in the waiting room. The Sanchezes bring me in beers they brew at home and share photos on their iPhone of the trips they took to China or Mexico. The Watsons…well yeah, I mean, Mrs Watson does in fact bring in her knitting, but she has been knitting since she was like fifteen. And yeah, her chicken and dumplings are really good. And Mr. Watson has found almost four dollars in quarters behind my ears. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the Watsons as an example. My point is…

They are all totally unique individuals and when I talk to them about their pasts I find something truly astonishing:

They aren’t anything like us, they are exactly like themselves.

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So, You Want a Blogging Tip…

Damn, Girl has been growing a bit fast. OK, scary fast.

My little three-month-old blog is reaching toward fifteen hundred followers and tens of thousands of views. Companies are starting to contact me about promoting their shit. Every blogger’s dream, right?

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But I am not writing this to brag. I am writing this because I’ve been getting dozens of emails asking for blogging tips… And apparently “day drinking” isn’t cutting it

So let me try and muster something better: Let’s start by knocking off that “I feel bad for promoting myself” shit.

I could tell you to “post pretty pictures” and “be patient” but those tips are everywhere and they are a lot easier than what you actually have to learn how to do:

As a blogger, you need to get comfortable with needing things. More than that, you need to get comfortable asking for those things that you need.

Continue reading “So, You Want a Blogging Tip…”

Your Wedding, Your Money

A wedding

Uh oh, DGGYST has been reading again. Nothing good can come of that. I get new information and then I pass it on to you like some kind of horrible virus. You didn’t want to know about your giant clitoris, but I found out and just couldn’t help but tell you, so now you must take that information with you to the grave… or to the gynecologist where you will only think, “Zucchini clit, zucchini clit,” over and over and over again.

So when I read an article that the average cost of a wedding climbed to a record high of $35,329 last year, I was a bit stupefied and immediately felt the need to discuss it with you.

Now let me assure you, I think you are a big sexy adult who is entirely capable of spending her money the way she sees fit. There are a bunch of ridiculous articles out there telling you that weddings are a waste and stupid, and that you look fat and shouldn’t go to the beach (maybe my magazine pages got stuck together). I’m not going to do any of that.

I only want you to have a firm understanding of what you are getting for your money.

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Shit You Might Not Know Because No One Tells Millennials Anything

Girl in a dryer at a laundomat

Let me preempt this post by saying: maybe you had awesome boomer parents who were wise and gave you guidance and provided you with endless opportunities and pearls of wisdom. In which case, ask them if they are up for adopting a 29-year-old blogger who sometimes only pretends to wash her hands for the comfort of others and is not above eating things out of the garbage.

George Costanza eating out of the trash

But this post is for the rest of my contemporaries who, in our guidance-free lives, use #adulting and call all of our other millennial friends when we discover how to load a fucking dishwasher.

Our general cluelessness and enthusiasm for life hacks has been on my mind a lot and has led me to conduct a very unscientific poll. This week I have been asking all my millennial friends, “What is the best piece of advice you ever got from your parents?”

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The Pride of Poverty and Spoiling Your Kids

Rotten apples on the ground

Today we are tackling a pretty heavy subject: spoiling your children.

Veruca Salt throwing a tantrum

Growing up, my mother used to frequently say, “Money is the source of all evil.”

Not only was money evil but it was a personality killer, a relationship ruiner, and a poison to all things good and decent and fluffy in the world. Because of this, there was quite a shortage of things in my house: running water, reliable electricity, food….

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Fuck Status Symbols

A woman wearing a ring that says, "I am a badass"

Answer honestly: do you want your mother’s life?

I could actually hear the NOOOOOOOOO you screamed in your own head, that’s how loud it was.

We don’t want our parents lives. Don’t get caught in the same traps they did. The symbols that baby boomers affixed so much value to are ridiculous, obsolete, and genuinely not the symbols your contemporaries put value on. Below is a list of the shit that nobody hip cares about, and makes you look like a superficial idiot.

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