Since I can’t seem to get the job for which I am the most qualified, I guess I need to start looking at other options.
Full Time Writer:
I can make my own hours, which I like, because I tend to suffer from insomnia. I can work in my pajamas (which never went over well when I tried it as a teacher, or when I worked at Chapters, the bunch of prudes). And I can keep up with my soap opera… daytime sports shows.
So far, no one wants to pay me to write anything. Also, the social isolation is a bit much: I’ve started holding staff meetings with my Lego Star Wars figures. They’re a good bunch, but there isn’t one original idea in the lot of them. And I think that Boba Fett is stealing office supplies.
Video Game Tester:
I could get paid for an activity that I already do to the point that it could be considered a non-chemical addiction. I wouldn’t need to keep borrowing games from my little brother (aged 26). I would hold sway over legions of envious nerds, geeks, and losers.
“Gamer’s thumbs;” it’s like tennis elbow but without the threat of physical fitness. “The FPS Twitches;” comes from playing too much Halo online with ADHD 13-year-olds on Redbull and Ritalin. “Grand Theft Auto Syndrome;” you start treating your car like a weapon, you want to throw grenades into crowds just because they’re full of ugly people, and you start to believe that flying a stolen helicopter will be relatively easy and generally ignored by the authorities.
Professional Mixed Martial Artist:
Fame. Notoriety. Sexy cauliflower ears.
Scar tissue. Torn ligaments. Sexy cauliflower ears.
It would take only a minor adjustment to my current lifestyle (more silver buckets and better wine). I could more easily justify drinking before noon. I could use terms like “bouquet,” “palette,” and “frizzlyness.”
I would have to hang out with other wine tasters. I’d probably be required to wear a sweater tied jauntily about my shoulders. And I guess you’re supposed to spit out most of the wine, which I can handle if it’s cheap wine, but there should be a law against wasting quality alcohol.
Lottery Jackpot Winner:
I could do the exact opposite of what that stupid lottery commercial claims would be “the dream.” There would be no island castle. There would be no room full of free-flying exotic birds (along with its piles of exotic bird poop and exotic salmonella risk). And none of my guests would be required to fly in via un-navigable hot-air balloon (please see my previous post for notes on the mechanics of hot-air flight).
I would probably hurt myself while playing in the trampoline/jacuzzi/climbing wall room (The “Trampuzzi Wall”), but no one would be able to hear my cries over the noise of the live band that I would keep on retainer.