"Oh it's on now! I'm gonna get Josiah and Zacariah and kick your ass with a butter churn! ...As soon as we finish erecting this barn...and hitch up the buggies. Expect us in a couple months"
But yeah, obviously I can't lie around like some kind of decadent Roman Emperor, waited upon hand and foot by scantily clad slave men, making them fight for my amusement while one of them feeds me grapes and fans with me a palm leaf and looks suspiciously like Gerard Butler and...wait, what was I talking about?
Right, jobs. The fact is things like gas, bills and the glorious Netflix don't pay for themselves and so I need a job. And I have kind of been a little bitch about going out and getting one. My dad and I got into a ruckus over it (ruckus is another good word to say aloud in an English accent. That and fracas. Good stuff) but he made the point that I hadn't done shit and I felt angry because I was being treated like a dipshit child, and also...well I was acting like a dipshit child. There is no vacation, the bills aren't going to Rio for two months so I need to suck it up and hit the mall, where dignity goes to die.
For about five years running I've spent my summers chasing after infants who pee themselves for sport for very little pay, was briefly the secretary/fax machine gladiator for this one guy over winter break a few years ago and then this past year I played endless videos of frolicking kittens on the school TV station. I am Sugary Cynic the Sporadically Employed. So I'm reasonably nervous about finding work. There's not really much else to talk about, slow day on the home front and all. I mean, there was that invading Mongol horde that came and took over the house and wanted me to be their slave. But I escaped them and took refuge with some gypsies who taught me their magical gypsy ways and helped me confront and battle the band of angry Mongol warriors and win back my home, so really it's hardly worth mentioning.
"Work is the refuge of people who have nothing better to do" -Oscar Wilde, oh go and have some bon mots and gay sex you aesthetesist you (jk, we're still pals, right? Oscar?)