A Job (To Do)

Is this a hurricane?
I can't tell if this is a hurricane or  not.
I know it's not a day to look at women while I pretend to enjoy the beach.
So I'm staying inside.
Are all of you people at work?
You are?
Drag.
I'd bet you can afford a can of Coca-Cola from time to time, though, can't you?
Well, that's not bad. 

I participated in a comedy contest last night.
The only way to be a cool guy in one of these things is to act like it's no big deal.
Which it isn't, really.
The winner of this particular contest is chosen through online voting.
It's the sort of thing that's going to go to the Mark Days of the world.
Talentless, big-headed men with too many friends.
I had to do five minutes.
I opened by equating participation in a comedy contest to sticking your tongue on a battery when no one's looking.
And then swallowing the battery.
Then I asked how much time that ate up.
Felt great.

I have an apartment in Halifax now.
Which is really something.
Guess I'm doing this.
All that remains now is a job.
Just once.
Just once in my life I'd like to have a job like the ones you people have.
Where you surf around on the internet for half of the day.
Because no one's truly paying attention to you.
And several of your co-workers don't even know what your job is.
Or theirs, for that matter. 
Perhaps a situation where I can read all day.
A used bookstore near some train tracks that no one ever goes to.
Except for that one fair-skinned woman with the long cardigans.
And leather bodice!
Looking for mint copies of Harry Potter to sell to people in Africa via Ebay.
I'll probably be pumping gas.

I went to Trapper John's last night with Peter White, Brian Alyward, Andrew Ivimey, and herself.
Ivimey's ego had to get the bus down and meet up with us later.
Crammed into my mother's car, we jammed to Lauryn Hill on the way down.
Don't blow away out there today.