WORK: Or, I Know Why the Poor Artist Serves Burgers. Also, A Contest Kind Of?

Greetings, minions. It’s been some time since I’ve been able to stand over you wearing an expression of general discontent, and, I’ll say it, I’ve missed you.

Not you, though. You annoy the shit out of me. Why are you even here? GUARDS!

*scuffle ensues*

There. Now where was I?

Ah, yes. Work. 

Like most adults of my species, I’ve procured a job because unlike civilized society, here, we barter with little pieces of paper and plastic cards with names printed on them. I know, weird, right? And this job has gotten in the way of a lot of things–face (talk?) time with my partners in crime, Hanna and Renee, time usually spent plotting ridiculous stories I may or not not write in the future, reading time…

Notice a trend? Like the cell phones of 10 years ago, this job EATS all of the minutes. 

But I’ll let you in a secret: it regurgitates some awesome things, too. 

No, I’m not just talking about the bartering paper (even though that is a bonus–side note, tip your fucking servers, people, or I will find you and stick you in the chokey). 

Ever walked into the middle of a conversation and immediately felt awkward about it because of what was said? Of course you have. And I’ll also bet that you’ve wished to have heard the rest of it, too. How about looked across the room at a person and IMMEDIATELY come up with a background story for them because to your insane mind, it’s fucking OBVIOUS that they’re a secret agent for MI-6, or has a scale model of Las Vegas in their basement where they perform Barbara Streisand medleys with their pet parrot, Veronica?

Exactly. This is my life, people, and it’s like catnip for writers. 

Feeling blocked? Get a job. Your mom will thank you, and so will your wife/husband/Kryptonian Master. Or, if you’re feeling lazy and would rather live vicariously through me (jerks), I’ll be posting the best of my observations once a week. Mondays. Yeah, Mondays, because they need some serious fucking improvement. What should we call it? Leave your suggestions in the comments and the person who gives me the best one will win something bookish. 

 

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3 thoughts on “WORK: Or, I Know Why the Poor Artist Serves Burgers. Also, A Contest Kind Of?

  1. Monday Medleys
    Manic Mondays (What? It’s a classic. Don’t mess with classic.)
    Monday Mayhem (Because Mayhem is cool).

    …and that’s all you get. I’m not doing all the work around here. 😀

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