The benefits at my job are really outstanding. I get three weeks paid vacation, along with full medical and dental insurance. Even better, my company is nice enough to pay me in shame.
I do get paid in money, although not very much. The money I make is enough for me to pay my bills and keep going to school. I’m thankful for it, but I’m doubly appreciative of the shame that my current position heaps upon me as well. Granted, I’ve made more shame at previous jobs. In fall 2000, after I had graduated college I had to briefly move back into my parents home and work at a movie theater. I worked at this same theater when I was 16, and now I was back again as a 21-year old, selling tickets and suffering through humiliating encounters with people I knew in high school going to the movies. In that job, I made $7.25 an hour plus all the shame I could bear. I made more shame units per hour than I ever had, but it was tough picking up enough hours.
My current job isn’t quite as emasculating and awful, though my company isn’t bashful about distributing shame upon me and my co-workers. We are often treated like delinquant children, and conversely rewarded with candy and toy cars (I’m completely serious). There is a veritable bounty of shame to be had for a man in my position. Fortunately, I thrive on shame. It wounds me deeply, paralyzing me with fear and feelings of overwhelming inadequacy. I then feel too worthless and pathetic to look for work elsewhere, thus ensuring my continued employment at my job. For a man like me who needs stability, being compensated in shame is a true blessing.
This fall, when I begin my career as a teacher I will demand early on to be given additional shame. If the administation will not submit to these demands, I plan to take my grievance to the union for help. I don’t care how they give me the shame; I just know that at this point my lifestyle needs to be maintained through shame. Perhaps I can be ordered to clean up my students vomit, or maybe all the other teachers could mercilessly mock and ridicule me. Maybe the principal could force me to defecate myself in front of my 4th hour class. All these options would provide me with the shame that cruelly fuels my identity. I need the sweet shame so bad.