So the freelance lifestyle was going great for me. I was sleeping in late, blogging from bed, and avoiding wearing pants with buttons, zippers, or any of those overly-complicated mechanisms. But then one day I woke up, got hit on by a homeless man at the library (one thing led to another and he did eventually gave me the number of his favorite pay phone to pee on), and found dried-up oatmeal on my scarf and I asked myself, “Is this how I want to spend my twenties?”
I mean, sure the 5-day old oatmeal tasted fresh enough, I’m not trying to sit here and bash eating leftovers. But it couldn’t make up for the fact that I had no co-workers, no real office, and no one believing that freelancing was a real job. So I did what any qualified writer does when she’s looking for a legitimate job: I got back on Craigslist, found the job of my dreams, and applied immediately. Unfortunately it turns out that my pre-puberty body prevents me from being an escort. Another dream crushed.
But I wouldn’t let that stop me. I found four more almost ideal jobs: babysitting an incontinent 80-year-old blind man, being a drug mule on the Mexican border, working for Coed Media Group, and having a sex change and appearing on Tyra 1-3 times to talk about the experience. Read More »
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