Consequences 2

Heeding the following words will preserve your dignity, if not your life:

From every action comes a consequence. No one—allow me to repeat, no one—is immune to this temporal phenomenon. It may take years for the consequence to manifest, but it will. When it does, your actions now will determine whether that consequence is a benefit or a detriment. Think about it now; you won't regret it later.

Consequences

In light of recent eastward events, I would like my readers to take the following words to heart:

A secret is a living, breathing thing That, from its birth entombed, Applies its claws to carve and slash and sting Until it is exhumed. Its shovels come from confidence betrayed, From prying ears and eyes, For time ends every selfish masquerade By which the secret dies.

Rent a Friend

I've become a friend for rent. No, really, I found a way to actually profit financially from years of practice, smiling and nodding. All I have to do is put my face on a website, and people will gladly pay me $20 an hour (some charge $50) to be their friend for a while. What a fantastic concept, right?

Honestly, when I first heard about this service over the radio, the first thought that came to mind was something to the effect of "How absolutely absurd! Who would actually pay someone to be their friend? Furthermore, who would actually charge for their friendship? At that point, what is the moral difference between being a 'Rent-a-Friend' and a prostitute?"

Good question. Before I signed up, I had to solve this little puzzle, because frankly, though my financial situation is less than secure, I didn't feel particularly inclined to consider myself that desperate, two months graduated. Investigation launched. First relief point: the Rules page distinctly states that this is not an escort service, and it flatly prohibits any and all forms of physical contact (i.e. handshakes must be conducted from a distance of four feet). While I do have my doubts about how this applies to being someone's prom date (see activities), this at least gave me a point of argument should I come under the moral scrutiny of a friend or family member. All this site really asked of me was that I be the ghost of friendship, a hologram of interpersonal connection, an ideal for what friendship is supposed to be. Fortunately, despite my feelings on the matter, I do ghosting very well.

Nonetheless, there remained the issue of accepting payment for spending time with someone. The very thought seems cold and mechanical, which I can also do well but would prefer not to. The more I looked over the list of activities, the more the answer became apparent to me. I didn't have to accept payment just for spending time with someone. Technically, I didn't even have to call myself a "friend," per se. The site gives certain options, such as poetry, dancing, language, location tours, and even manners. I could teach. I have a set of skills that, if I could teach them, I wouldn't be some soulless post-grad punk looking to make a quick buck at the expense of the lonely. I would be a teacher, a guide, someone who could bring growth. I could live with that.

Granted, there is little doubt in my mind that the service will be abused. Whether it retains the majority of its integrity or becomes a Craigslist-like site for hooking up remains to be seen. It's chief source of security rests in its deferral of responsibility to the users of the site, a technique that keeps Craigslist on the web, even after serving as a tool for murder. Multiple times. The site does provide a list of cautionary warnings and gives advice on how to safely meet a new "friend," so I suppose my "job security" will depend entirely on keeping my own head on my shoulders. Fingers crossed. Wish me luck. Anyone looking for a good time?

The Hollywood Hills Have Eyes

Occasionally, I am asked to deliver top-secret packages to top-secret locations. No, I am not going to divulge these top secrets to you, lest I get a hira-shuriken lodged in my right temple. I kid you not. Instead, I shall attempt to demonstrate that the Hollywood Hills are located over a portal of pure terror. "But that's where the stars live!" one may very well argue, indignant at my recusancy. "Correct," I would reply, "but so is space, where there are aliens. QED."

On this day in particular, as the clouds kissed the hills in mist, the beams of my headlights groped through the twilight. I swerved wildly to make the turn on my direction sheet and found myself staring down a winding, narrow road. Immediately the lenses of dozens of cameras, both visible and concealed, turned toward my poor, little car, staring at us with cold, unblinking interest. In the half second it took for me to think, there was already a car of net financial worth more than my life honking at me from behind. It then passed me on the single lane and vanished into the mist.

I went on, past the massive bars of gates concealing the way to the residences of the secretive, camera eyes panning after me, computer programs no doubt reading my license plate number and blaring alarms that a Utah native had entered the territory in a car worth less than cashmere toilet paper. Blasphemy. Then, the unthinkable happened. I missed the address.

I crawled down a narrow road with nothing but a short fence between myself and the ravine. The only place to turn around was a single driveway at a blind corner. I checked my mirrors. Safe. I blasted into the driveway. Stopped. Checked both ways. Inched back. Checked both ways again. Pulled out and was on my way again. Phew... Then, as if by black magic, a glittering Lexus materialized behind me, high beams flaring. I pulled into another driveway as it shot past me, fortunately the driveway of the proper lair- er, house. I hastily got out of the car, showed the package to the camera at the gate, so as not to activate the laser turrets, and tossed the package over the gate.

Not wanting to overstay my lack of welcome, I hopped back in my car and pulled out as a scintillating Mercedes whooshed past like a comet, nearly taking out my rear-view mirror. I stopped. Checked both ways. Inched forward. Checked both ways again. Checked both ways another time. Inched forward. Checked both ways once more. Blasted out into the road. A Land Rover waited for me and immediately began to tailgate me to the light. I turned left at the light and broke several laws of physics to get out of there.

I was lucky to survive that night, but should fate ever take you, my reader, into those hills, I recommend doing so only on foot under cover of darkness and ice packs (for the infrared sensors). Otherwise, that trip may be your last.