Eight days ago, my roommate, Tom, was hit by a car while riding his bike. Tom and his bike were dragged for about ten yards before being ejected from their temporary womb of rapidly twisting metal and unforgiving concrete. The driver didn't notice Tom pounding on the passenger side window or screaming, and was eventually admitted to the hospital after smashing into two cars just blocks away. She was a twenty something girl who was under the influence of ecstasy and meth. She also blew a .23 on her breathalyzer, crushing the legal limit by almost three fold. Tom faired surprisingly well, but the irresponsible actions of the driver have forever sealed Tom's reputation as a pussy among roommates who haven't had their shit ruined by girls.
Today I took Tom to an orthopedic doctor appointment in Springfield. While I waited for the clinical terms for his pussiness, I witnessed two nurses collaborate on making a future adult less capable by baby-talking it in toddler form. There were a surprising amount of attractive girls in the waiting room, which I thought was strange for a building constructed specifically for broken people. Tom finally finished being poked and prodded and his list of injuries was thorough enough that it eludes me. Long story short, he'll be mostly fine and shouldn't get to complain as much as he does.
I had a job interview this morning. It's important to be submissive if you want to make it in the workforce, so I stayed up until six hours before my interview drinking beer. You have to hit an intermediate level of drunk so that you're subsequently hungover enough to not have good posture or use words big enough to intimidate any sociology or philosophy majors that may end up administering your interview, but not so hungover that you're in a fetal position and provide a urinary analysis of concentrated malt liquor. I hit the grey area well. This was just at one of those agencies that first finds a broad category of the workforce to classify you with and then wads you into any positions available in that category or the one next to it. My category was "Office/Retail." Having met their requirements by roughly 200%, they offered me one of two positions. One was selling wireless internet, which would be fabulous if I enjoyed the general public asking me tech questions, but I don't, so I passed. The other thing typing 64 words per minute and getting a 100 on the pre-employment math test gets you is a position "greeting people and teaching them about loans. And then, if they're approved and can't pay it back on time, you get to go to their houses and ask for money." My employment slinger gingerly explained. "Go to their houses and ask for money." I could do that NOW. I don't need you to do that. In fact, if I did it without you, it would be MY money, not yours.
While driving on my way to not get another job I saw a fire truck with lights flashing and sirens blaring. It looked like it would really love to save somebody if it weren't motionlessly waiting for a train to pass. I laughed on the inside thinking of all the people who believe that everything happens for a reason.