Giving handies for cigarettes is a job of sorts. Dealing fentanyl to teenagers is a job. Soliciting passers-by on the sidewalk as you clutch a clipboard is a job of some kind. Wheedling coins and food from the public as you tent out on the sidewalk could be considered a job. Murdering a person in exchange for a bag of cash is definitely a job. Taking three dicks up your asshole on-camera for a cheque is undoubtedly a job.
These are jobs, in which they require efforts that take time (even a whole day) to carry out. That's what she's not getting. When people say "get a job", they don't mean for the money (but fortunately, jobs do come with money). They mean "get busy with something to occupy your mind", so she isn't fucking
eating all day. The impulse is a rational one, but hopelessly naive, since Chatal is the very definition of unemployable, with a proven track record as such. YouTube really is her only bread and butter; she has no other options (and don't tell me about feeders; the number of feeders who want to feed her
and hear about farts, wet shits, and hysterectomies is trivial-to-none. Even they have standards of beauty. She barely has feeders and wouldn't know what to do with them anyway) YouTube is it. But she spends 20 minutes a day on her videos. I'm sure editing comments is a full time job, but not sure it should count. It's a subsidized hobby, not a job. I guess I'm glad she doesn't call herself an "artist"; she has backed off "celebrity" after testing the waters with it last year,
Regarding another issue in the news, I'm really curious to see if the haydurs ramp up reporting her channel for self-harm. As she reaches this critical juncture in her life-and-death struggle ("struggle" the absolutely the wrong word; she hasn't ever attempted a struggle...) , she is also reaching the point where she really might be in danger of having her gravy train yanked from her. All it takes is one busybody Karen at the YouTube Demonetization Office to take a righteous stand, and *poof* She'll have nightmares about all the food she threw away (*always remember: pics or gtfo with Chantal) when the plug gets yanked. She is hot-headed enough that one of her chimpouts might contain language that crosses the line; some of them have before. I don't necessarily hope they
do demonetize her because I am against that kind of meddling in principle, and I'd just as soon keep her motivated to keep posting until the last day on her deathbed ("TMI! Runny Stool Storytime! Triple McWhopper and Cheezy Fries!"). But I see the haydurs as an invisible swarm that is inevitable, and shit's gotta land somewhere. Oh the hilarity that might ensure, I'm torn...
So, to review, this month we have been treated to diabetes and fatty liver disease. She continues to eat like a supertubbo. Her room is a filthy pigsty with broken shit in it. Downstairs is a filthy pigsty with broken shit in it. The carpets look like an army of grease mechanics have marched on them. Avalanches of boxes everywhere. Torrid hauls lying soiled on the floor. She has lived there eight fucking months; the place should still smell like fresh paint and carpet. She is a slob that puts slobs to shame. Shits and farts. Farts and shits. Runny shits and stinky farts. Farts and shitting. Peetz farts too. Eating. Lies about diets. Lies about therapists. Wheezing, and chest pains. Sad attempts at human interaction via livesteams. Farts, shit, stink, grease, dirt, mess, eating, lies, shit. Nothing mentally ill here, folks. No disorders present. Just a luscious influencer living the life of luxury with a handsome man and all the latest kitchen gadgets here. No death spiral. No insanity. No sickness... It's a sunny lifestyle we viewers lust after and are driven to jealousy over.
Gotta say, 2020 is ending on even a better cliffhanger than 2019 did. Boy, anything can happen. Except good things.