I have written, before this, exactly 4 entries all year. ALL YEAR!!! Which is pathetic. Brimming over with pathos. It's because I work a 9 hour day PLUS. Not including the time it takes to get to work. Yes., my friends, I must bitch. And bitch hard.
Back in the bad old days of the Civil War, or more accurately, in a book (or miniseries, if we must go there-wait, yes, we must because the quote is from the series.) Okay, here it is: A Northerner and a Southern were having the following conversation,
"Well, I don't see how it's different from slavery, the pain of hunger in a man's belly compels him to work and if this is the only work he can get..."
Exactly.
Yesterday, a man who admired my ass told me that I could work at Hooters (yes, my darling fans, at the tender age of GASP! 45!) I could work at Hooters.
I wonder if I could REALLY get a job at Hooters. I mean really, could I? Would I want to? Hells yeah!
The truth is, I would rather have a real career. But not when I have to work 50 hour weeks. It's not like I'm making 100k plus. I mean, sure the money is pretty good, but really? I just can't fucking take it anymore. But I must. The pain in the belly is a very powerful compellant.
I remain,
Hilda Stinson
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