Kinda Like a Stripper. Only I'm Taking a Poll, Not "Taking" a Pole
In an ongoing effort to document the slimy, wet sneezy seizure that is my life, not so much for your voyeuristic entertainment, but to give me the validation that what I do and what the do does to me is no more fu*ked up and no more special than what happens to anyone else, we here at Nine-Seven have decided that it would be best if we quit making jokes about strippers and eliminated the use of the word, ‘retarded.’ Primarily because we’re afraid that one day, should “one of my shots ever get past the goalie,” my kids will either be retarded or grow up to be a stripper. Or worse, a retarded stripper.
So how do we avoid this? We change our ways? Or, maybe we just try to remember why we came to you in the first place. In the greater sense, we started this here journal to help us remember. A written dialogue with a sheet of paper whose only response is that which is prompted internally by the authors own words. An introspective sleigh ride that often raises retrospective questions, but more enjoyably, review of which refreshes my shotty memory of the ecstasies this ride has steered us through.
You may recall that I had an anticipated plan for the month of February. It seems as though I may have been a few months early (Foreshadowing? Perhaps, but we doubt it). A similar scenario of which may be the cause of my future child choosing to strip for dollars to fix the breaks on his wheelchair.
You see, when I was in Nice, I had a job interview. You could say that I was tag-teamed by two men from Germany and Switzerland. You could say that. And ultimately I was given the choice to pursue Job #1 or Job #2. In no particular order of importance or choice. Job #1 led to a position in Switzerland. Of which I had absolutely zero qualifications for and even less of an idea as to how to do what was required of me. Job #2 led to a position in Nice. Of which I was completely qualified for and knew exactly what I wanted to do and how I was going kick so much global ass doing it.
I chose to pursue Job #1. Knowing full well that I wasn’t going to get it, I went after it. Interviews with a team in France. A team from Germany. Yet a third team out of London. Next thing I knew I was in the top three. That’s like a quadriplegic winning a Bronze medal in the Platform High Dive. You do it just for the challenge with full anticipation that you’re going to drown. And really, who doesn’t want to go out in a blaze of glory?
But that’s as far as I was to go. Stick and Nine-Seven will not be moving to Switzerland.
And then she came back into the slimy, wet sneezy seizure that is my life.
So how do we avoid this? We change our ways? Or, maybe we just try to remember why we came to you in the first place. In the greater sense, we started this here journal to help us remember. A written dialogue with a sheet of paper whose only response is that which is prompted internally by the authors own words. An introspective sleigh ride that often raises retrospective questions, but more enjoyably, review of which refreshes my shotty memory of the ecstasies this ride has steered us through.
You may recall that I had an anticipated plan for the month of February. It seems as though I may have been a few months early (Foreshadowing? Perhaps, but we doubt it). A similar scenario of which may be the cause of my future child choosing to strip for dollars to fix the breaks on his wheelchair.
You see, when I was in Nice, I had a job interview. You could say that I was tag-teamed by two men from Germany and Switzerland. You could say that. And ultimately I was given the choice to pursue Job #1 or Job #2. In no particular order of importance or choice. Job #1 led to a position in Switzerland. Of which I had absolutely zero qualifications for and even less of an idea as to how to do what was required of me. Job #2 led to a position in Nice. Of which I was completely qualified for and knew exactly what I wanted to do and how I was going kick so much global ass doing it.
I chose to pursue Job #1. Knowing full well that I wasn’t going to get it, I went after it. Interviews with a team in France. A team from Germany. Yet a third team out of London. Next thing I knew I was in the top three. That’s like a quadriplegic winning a Bronze medal in the Platform High Dive. You do it just for the challenge with full anticipation that you’re going to drown. And really, who doesn’t want to go out in a blaze of glory?
But that’s as far as I was to go. Stick and Nine-Seven will not be moving to Switzerland.
And then she came back into the slimy, wet sneezy seizure that is my life.
