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I Accidentally Got Tangled Up In A Pyramid Scheme

I Accidentally Got Tangled Up In A Pyramid Scheme

A lot of things happened in the two weeks after I shattered my ankle, most of which I don’t fully remember because I was in a hydrocodone-induced haze. I turned twenty-five. I found my true self on the wheels of my very own wheelchair and I gave birth in my bathroom after not being able to shit for six days thanks said hydrocodone. But the worst thing that happened wasn’t shattering my ankle or my inability to walk for twelve weeks, the offense people took when I said I enjoyed rolling around in my wheelchair or informing my SO that, despite what I had been telling him, I do have the occasional shit. No, months later it was revealed just how big of a mistake I made while under heavy sedation and now, I’m not sure what to do.

Because from what I understand, I have sold my soul to a pyramid scheme, and I really don’t know how to win here.

Let me explain. You see, last week I was in my garage looking for the giant inflatable dick I bring to all bachelorette parties (if you don’t have one already, I highly suggest it — it’s a solid investment) when I saw a box I didn’t recognize. It was a classic brown number, rectangular, and perfectly taped up, like it hadn’t yet been opened. I immediately forgot my dick quest and inspected the box further, only to find something shocking: My name on the side.

And upon ripping open the box to the point of utter destruction, I saw something that made my heart stop. A hundred pamphlets, order forms, and declarations of how I can “become my own boss” stared up at me in the dingy, garage lighting. A cold, unsettling feeling rippled through my body as I hesitated before uncovering the final layer of the box. And there, underneath all of the unnecessary paper that caused a lot of trees their lives, I found the one thing that would confirm my fears.

A shitton of products that I was supposed to sample and/or sell to people.

After recovering from the horror of finding this evidence in my garage, I hastily made my way to my computer, where I dug into my financial records from the past few months. How had I ordered this? What did someone say to convince me that this was a good idea? Had I attempted to flush all of my common sense down the toilet, along with that 9-pound monster? And there, on January 31, I found out. In my emails, a correspondence with someone named Kandice with a “K” who convinced me that I would “become my own boss” by drinking her Kool-Aid and joining her. My sentence structure made no sense. I had spelled my name ” Racbe;” in the final email. And yet, I somehow managed to put my credit card number in correctly because when I searched the company on my transactions, there it was. A $175 charge to be a part of something bigger than myself. A phrase I had stopped sucking down after going alumn from my sorority, thank you very much.

Now, I’m not going to tell you *which* scheme I am now, apparently, involved in because what little pride I have left just can’t let me do that. But I can tell you, however, is that it’s bad, it’s cliché, and I have no idea what to do from here.

Because the thing is, I’ve never been a pyramid scheme type of gal. I graduated college! I didn’t get knocked up at 16! I don’t post motivational James Blunt quotes on my 300 follower Instagram account. I’ve seen acquaintance after acquaintance fall into these traps, and I’d laugh cruelly to myself as they asked if I wanted to buy some stick-on nails, makeup delivered to my door, some wine that benefits charity, or fucking weight loss supplements and shakes. I’ve seen it all and been offered it all. Each and every time one of my less-educated friends came to me, telling me about this amazing opportunity they had, I would feign interest, block them on social media, then tell my friends how horrible their lives had become over brunch.

But now, as I stare down in disgust at the box filled with products that will “unlock the key to success,” I don’t know what to do. So, guys. Help me, because I really feel like Frank stuck in a coil right now. Do I take this pyramid scheme by the horns and go all in, begging friends to buy from me and filling my social media accounts with this EXCITING NEW WAY TO CHANGE YOUR LIFE, or do I cut my losses, use the products, and cancel the $175 annual service without making any money? Because from my perspective, the only thing more embarrassing than accidentally getting tangled up in a pyramid scheme is watching the dropouts from my high school make more money than I will by selling fucking shakes.

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Rachel Varina

if it doesn't have snack or seats, i'm not there.

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