Began a minor fundraising campaign via the magic of Facebook and so far it’s been equal parts humiliating/happy/humiliating/unexpected/and humiliating. No one likes begging for money, except for beggars, who seem to get a real kick out of it; especially the ones who invest some time and imagination into it.
On first embarking on my quest to get money I don’t actually have to “earn,” I looked up dozens, if not hundreds of thousands of “How to Make $1,000 this Weekend!” articles in sucky women’s magazines that no one actually reads…just looks at the pictures of 10,000 calorie cupcakes they’ll never make. So the advice offered by these articles include “Hold a Yard Sale!” of course that assumes you have anything in your house that anyone would actually pay money for. Currently I have two green leather loveseats, well I think they’re loveseats because I can’t tell what they are beyond the millions of cat scratches covering every inch of them. I also have ten thousand stuffed animals, most with one eye missing. I have pens have full with ink–black and blue for the discriminating yard sale shopper. I have a daughter but if I sell her, well, that’ll open up a whole new set of problems that will make my cashlessness pale in comparison.
Okay so I also have clothes, but to feature them in a yard sale I’d have to wash and nicely fold them, which isn’t going to happen. I have four cute girly bins filled with a variety of well-expired make up in various shades of “neutral” and “beige” and “ivory.” I have approximately 29 plastic dinosaurs of varying sizes and types. I have old crappy shoes in size 5 that no woman wears because evidently as we’re progressed as a species women’s feet have grown to gigantic proportions.
Umm, well, I also have pillows. Most are flat. Some have drool stains. I have a drawer full of hopelessly tangled necklaces that “might” contain some actual gold or at least some gold plating. I have paper. Good Lord do I have paper. Stacks of paper. Unopened bills, catalogues, threatening notices from the local tax nazi, and 367,838 takeout menus from local Italian restaurants. I’m sure some of them must be pretty good. I wouldn’t know. I’m too poor to order takeout.
I have a bed, which I sort of need, and a small tv which I definitely need. I have a some lamps, but who the hell doesn’t and why would anyone want to buy them. I could sell my parents, but again, that would create a whole new set of problems that would probably make my being poor pale in comparison. I could sell my brother, but he’s almost fifty and probably wouldn’t go for it.
I have lots of bottles of random cold medicines, most half full. And the ones that are half full I’ve no doubt swigged straight from the container so I don’t see them being a big seller.
Hosting a yard sale was the biggest idea the overpaid editorial minions at these magazines could come up with but other fascinating ideas were; selling your blood, offering your services to someone in need (ahem, I’M IN NEED THEREFORE I HAVE NOTHING TO OFFER ANYONE), sell your breastmilk, sell stuff on Craigslist and hope the person wanting to “buy” your stuff doesn’t also want to “kill” you, recycle scrap metal, rent a room in your house (see problems associated with Craigslist idea), gamble at your local casino (flaw in plan involves having to have MONEY to gamble in the first place), become a consultant (on what, how to be poor? No sure there’s a big market for that). And of course I could always sell my sperm. I’m a woman but why let that stop me.
I’ll continue begging through gofundme.com, which seems to be a nice idea if the whole humiliation factor could somehow be diminished. We’ll see how it goes. In the meantime I’ll go out in search of scrap metal and try to get pregnant so I could sell my breastmilk.