Oh, wait...I don't have a career.
I just read a book about shoe addicts, and one of the women in it was a phone-sex operator. I'm just sayin'...it sounded like she made some bank. I mean, $1.49/minute to make some moaning noises on the phone to a bunch of pervs? I could do it.
As long as these perverts were big fans of giggling. Because I would be giggling incessantly trying to get through five minutes of "Oh baby, you're so hot...blah blah blah." Am I? Well, yeah, actually. A little bit. But you don't know that.
But in that five minutes (I'm assuming the pervs get off pretty fast...) I will have made $7.45. I think it's a reasonable trade off.
Okay, maybe what I crave in a career is not actually listening to some sweaty pervert on the other end of my phone. Hell...I'd have to get a phone. And I'm not going out of my way to spend $20 just to listen to you pervs.
So that's out.
Start my own cleaning service? Never mind that I can't keep my own apartment clean. The cleaning service we used to have at work - and note that I say "used to have" because my boss decided that the reason we weren't making enough money was because we were paying the cleaning service good money to do something we're perfectly capable of doing ourselves - charged us $175 to...well, take out the trash. I think that's all they did. Once a week. That's $43.75 to take trash out of 10 trash cans. That's $4.38 per trash can. Not bad, I say.
But I don't really like to clean. Or dig around in other people's freshly-tossed-out trash.
I have recently developed a severe addiction to Food Network. It would be totally awesome to be some posh chef who turns her nose up at every delicious entree put in front of her. "This tastes like the butt cheese left on my grandmother's arse after she's been on bed rest for six months. You should try a career in garbage collecting instead."
Unfortunately, I'm thinking they want you to be a chef first, and I have very little hope of that. My palate is just not wide enough. I'm more of the why-use-all-that-foliage-when-regular-lettuce-would-do kinda girl.
I briefly considered a career as a dessert bar artist. What's that you say? It's the person who designs the super yummy dessert bars at fancy weddings where they either do or don't have cake. Apparently most people think wedding cake is gross. Sacrilege! I love cake. I chucked the idea when I realized how often I'd be either puking from the constant wedding love fest (which, let's face it, isn't bad for my girlish figure)or murderous from dealing with bridezillas (jail time is so bad for the social life).
What I really want is to get paid for handing out my opinions (I have a lot of them). My own magazine column or something. But who doesn't want that? So instead, I'm off to grad school where I will (hopefully) study forensic anthropology and become that creepy freak all of you have been expecting.
Or, ya know...I'll come up with the next Twitter (you can follow me!). Or maybe be the next Jen Lancaster (Aside from her politics, seriously, I think we're soul mates. Go. Read. Her. Books.). Or become a bum and hostel my ass all over Europe and Asia before getting tossed into Thai prison where I will lose my Wonderbra and be forced to sing Madonna songs until I die. Or...
Oh yeah! I want to take over as "The Person Who Names Stuff." Because I think that person is asleep on the job. Now. Where do I apply?
31 March 2009
Oh, wait...I don't have a career.