Elucidate This Mess
Pack pack pack. If I could get a job that involved the accumulation of crap, particularly crap that would in time prove to be nothing more than a novel way to occupy space, I'd never be poor again. Some of these things I own have an actual purpose, though the appearance of that purpose is rare and thrilling, like happening upon a pod of whales. I have a large drill with a "rock hammer" function. Mere drywall waits in silent terror of the day I decide that I want to hang something.
I really need to be working in the next week or so, but hovering just above the state minimum wage isn't going to cut it in this city and I'm not exactly rife with "the hookups". I gave up on probing employed people that I know for references when I realized that they were using my shitty situation as a conversational segue to bitch about their jobs.
Really people? Really? If I had magical powers a good number of people would be surprised to find themselves choking on invisible disembodied cocks whenever they opened their mouths to speak. Porn-sized cocks. That's a mental image that I really wish I hadn't just inflicted on myself.
I'm going to hate getting rid of that little 50's medical table. I never did get a chance to remove the top and replace it with a creepy florescent light. Just as well I suppose, since if I had put that much effort into it I would've insisted on taking it with me to a place that's already too small for the furniture I have, and guests would be forced to wonder why I had a small medical table hanging from the ceiling.
Hmmm.
No, I suppose not.
...
HA! Invisible cocks.