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How Did I Get Here?

By Sarah Larson | Comment Diversions | February 24, 2010 | Comments ()

By Sarah Larson | Comment Diversions | February 24, 2010 |


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My stupid sister's mongrel children got me sick. Kids are so disgusting, and now I'm also disgusting because I'm festering with their pestilence. I've been coughing up green slime for a couple of days and I have a hard time staying asleep for any length of time because the hacking, barking cough keeps waking me up. I'm insanely congested and can't smell anything, which means I can't really taste anything, so I would cut a bitch for some blazing buffalo wings because at least those might have some discernible flavour. I can't go get any blazing buffalo wings right now, though, because I have a fever and I'm really dizzy and I'm doped to the gills on flu medicine and for awhile this morning I was pretty sure my cat was a teeny tiny dinosaur. The drugs are starting to wear off a little so the cat looks like a cat again (although I assure you, I still have my suspicions) and I can't take any more drugs until after I pick up the germ-harbouring urchins from school in a few hours. I might have to make a detour then for some blazing buffalo wings. So for the time being I feel sicker than ever, I'm absurdly thirsty and have been drinking gallons of fluids so I have to pee like every 15 minutes but I'm so dizzy that I have to crawl between the bathroom and my bed, my hair is sticking out all over the place in a Lady Gaga-esque contortion, and I'm trying to work up the energy to take a shower, probably whilst sitting down so I don't fall over and crack my skull open.

I am the picture of elegance at the moment, is essentially what I'm saying. I am a hot zone of gorgeousness. I'm fairly certain that, were I actually able to smell anything, I could smell your jealousy from here.

So anyway, let's talk jobs. Specifically, the job you have now. How did you get here? Was it part of a deliberate plan, an accidental circumstance, or the result of a gypsy curse? Maybe you lost a bet, or you saved the life of a high-falutin' billionaire and they owed you a favour, or maybe you sold your soul to the devil? Maybe your job is court ordered, or maybe you're an indentured servant? Oooh, raise your little e-hand if you've gone all Tom Ripley and have stolen someone else's life!

If you have a degree, is your job in any way related to your degree(s), even tangentially? Did you ever picture yourself where you are now? If you did, does where you're sitting look how you imagined it might, or is your job an unforeseen house of horrors? Or maybe it's a pleasant surprise of myriad delights? Please to discuss. I gotta go now; I need to construct a series of booby traps for when the cat turns back into a dinosaur later.

Sarah Larson lives in Minnesota, where she is usually up to no good. She does not believe in Robitussin cough syrup, which she had to use when she ran out of Delsym, because it turns out that Robitussin is a bottle full of ineffectual grape-flavoured LIES. She only updates her blog when bullied into it, but you can read the archive here if you're bored enough.


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