Commuted Sentence

So normally my day goes about like this:

Or maybe like this:

Yeah, so what? I like to change my wigs and underpants frequently. I have what you could call a library. Best practices.

But somehow (giant novelty check) I became bamboozled into working (a job?? I think?) recently. It’s as easy as falling over and getting herpes from a toilet seat. One day you are sitting at home, then the phone rings, and you are all “Yes, that is me, I have a personal internet profile. Oh, what? Work? I guess I can do that thing you claim to need,” and then you have to go meet with a string of people and tailor your personal presentation carefully to each distinct personality vetting you. And you wore the blazer, and that always makes you look smart. Yeah? I know. Really cute. I would hire me.

And then, a few weeks later, I find myself doing this…thing…apparently some people do it every day. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like a flash mob of otherwise well-intentioned people show up to drive 15 mph for 10 mile stretches at a time. WHAT IS THIS? Normally I am a maximizer and not a satisficer (think of how long it takes me to pick out panties), but when it comes to this vehicular theater, I am middle lane all the way. Screw those guys, with their left lane, and their lane changes, and their oh wait I have to move over again, now back again, oh, exit only lane? Oops! I will pass you anyway. I will bury you. I don’t know who thought up this little charade, but it is not appreciated.

Also, it turns out I am not working for the C.I.A. This is disappointing. Being recruited has really lost its charm now. What am I supposed to do with my wigs? IDK, I am still staring at goats. Here’s hoping. I will vaporize all those cars in front of me.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.