reasoning for not touching the dirty dishes in the sink. Or her laundry piling up in the hallway. Detergents of any kind, she claims, cause her to break out in life-threatening hives.
Oddly, this does not prevent her from using my BedHead shampoo.
“I’m going out,” I say.
“Whatever,” Missy calls back.
I pack up thirty of my CDs and take them around the corner to the used CD shop, where I get $10. Apparently, Oingo Boingo and Duran Duran aren’t the hot items they used to be.
It is a sad day when ten bucks doubles my total net worth. On the bright side, I can now deposit this $10 into an ATM and retrieve a full $20 out.
My next stop is the blood bank around the corner, where I have to answer a list of a hundred questions, including “Have you ever sold sex for money or drugs?” and “Have you ever taken intravenous drugs or had sex with a person who’s taken intravenous drugs?” I pause on the question: “Have you had sex with an ape/monkey/or any species of primate since 1980?” I almost check yes to this, thinking Mike might count, but decide that he’s less of a monkey and more of a pig.
I sit in a chair while a young nurse pokes me eighteen times with a needle before she finds the vein she calls “slippery.” When the bag fills up in a matter of seconds, the nurse tells me I’ve got big veins, which makes me a fast bleeder.
At least I’m good at something. It’s nice to know if I’m ever in a major car accident, I’ll bleed to death in eight point two seconds.
It’s only after they take enough blood from me for a major transplant operation that I discover they no longer pay people for blood donation. For my trouble, I get a juice box and a small pouch of Oreo cookies.
When I get back to my apartment, Missy is nowhere to be seen. I check my valuables — a pearl necklace from Grandma and my television and DVD player, but nothing seems to be missing. Plus, Missy’s boxes are still here, as well as her boyfriend’s cash-stuffed wallet. I assume she’s coming back.
I take advantage of the silence to get started on Ron’s CD project, which is the first fun thing I get to do all day. For me, there’s nothing better than concept art, and having no constraints except what you can draw. In a half hour, I have a rough sketch of a giant sink stopper, which I fill in with some deliberately oversized brush strokes. If I had a job that just allowed me to do this all day, I think I could be happy. I just want a job that requires more creativity than designing office supply catalogs.
I decide it’s time to try looking at job listings. Looking through online classifieds is boring and self-defeating, and by the time I’ve scrolled through hundreds of job result screens, my eyes feel red and strained, and I am filled with self-loathing. I resent my parents, who did not have the ingenuity to invent something really marketable, like the beer hat or Liquid Paper. I resent the people who stumble into fortunes by inheriting the buildings around Wrigley Field, where you can rent out your roof to a Budweiser ad and happily sustain a lifetime of excess by simply allowing a beer company to paint the top of your building. And where’s my benefactor? Where’s my check from the National Endowment for the Arts? Where’s my corporate welfare?
It all seems so hopeless.
In desperation, I start firing off resumes to things I’m overqualified for, including: Gap sales representative, theater usher, and dog walker.
I apply for those as well as thirty other jobs that I’m under-qualified for (including CFO of Chrysler). Like Todd says, how do you know you won’t get the job unless you throw your hat into the ring?
The benefit of having lots of time is you have the rare luxury of being able to waste other people’s.
My front door opens with a bang and Missy walks in, wearing a wool suit, complete with heels.
“You had an interview,” I accuse, pointing at her fitted black blazer. I feel like I’ve
Oddly, this does not prevent her from using my BedHead shampoo.
“I’m going out,” I say.
“Whatever,” Missy calls back.
I pack up thirty of my CDs and take them around the corner to the used CD shop, where I get $10. Apparently, Oingo Boingo and Duran Duran aren’t the hot items they used to be.
It is a sad day when ten bucks doubles my total net worth. On the bright side, I can now deposit this $10 into an ATM and retrieve a full $20 out.
My next stop is the blood bank around the corner, where I have to answer a list of a hundred questions, including “Have you ever sold sex for money or drugs?” and “Have you ever taken intravenous drugs or had sex with a person who’s taken intravenous drugs?” I pause on the question: “Have you had sex with an ape/monkey/or any species of primate since 1980?” I almost check yes to this, thinking Mike might count, but decide that he’s less of a monkey and more of a pig.
I sit in a chair while a young nurse pokes me eighteen times with a needle before she finds the vein she calls “slippery.” When the bag fills up in a matter of seconds, the nurse tells me I’ve got big veins, which makes me a fast bleeder.
At least I’m good at something. It’s nice to know if I’m ever in a major car accident, I’ll bleed to death in eight point two seconds.
It’s only after they take enough blood from me for a major transplant operation that I discover they no longer pay people for blood donation. For my trouble, I get a juice box and a small pouch of Oreo cookies.
When I get back to my apartment, Missy is nowhere to be seen. I check my valuables — a pearl necklace from Grandma and my television and DVD player, but nothing seems to be missing. Plus, Missy’s boxes are still here, as well as her boyfriend’s cash-stuffed wallet. I assume she’s coming back.
I take advantage of the silence to get started on Ron’s CD project, which is the first fun thing I get to do all day. For me, there’s nothing better than concept art, and having no constraints except what you can draw. In a half hour, I have a rough sketch of a giant sink stopper, which I fill in with some deliberately oversized brush strokes. If I had a job that just allowed me to do this all day, I think I could be happy. I just want a job that requires more creativity than designing office supply catalogs.
I decide it’s time to try looking at job listings. Looking through online classifieds is boring and self-defeating, and by the time I’ve scrolled through hundreds of job result screens, my eyes feel red and strained, and I am filled with self-loathing. I resent my parents, who did not have the ingenuity to invent something really marketable, like the beer hat or Liquid Paper. I resent the people who stumble into fortunes by inheriting the buildings around Wrigley Field, where you can rent out your roof to a Budweiser ad and happily sustain a lifetime of excess by simply allowing a beer company to paint the top of your building. And where’s my benefactor? Where’s my check from the National Endowment for the Arts? Where’s my corporate welfare?
It all seems so hopeless.
In desperation, I start firing off resumes to things I’m overqualified for, including: Gap sales representative, theater usher, and dog walker.
I apply for those as well as thirty other jobs that I’m under-qualified for (including CFO of Chrysler). Like Todd says, how do you know you won’t get the job unless you throw your hat into the ring?
The benefit of having lots of time is you have the rare luxury of being able to waste other people’s.
My front door opens with a bang and Missy walks in, wearing a wool suit, complete with heels.
“You had an interview,” I accuse, pointing at her fitted black blazer. I feel like I’ve
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