This World Is a Horrible, Horrible Place
Everything about everything seems horrible when you quit the most addictive drug targeted to males ages 14-35.
Cold. Turkey.
Kids, I haven’t had a Mt. Dew in 5 days.
And what a week to call yourself a quitter. It’s been a trying time here at Nine-Seven. I have spent more time on an airplane in the last few weeks than I care to admit. And I love to fly. Really, I do. But the soreness my hind quarters feels runs as deep as America’s ill feelings towards the French. I can feel the embolism squish when I sit down, just waiting to break loose and find its way into my lungs. That’s gonna suck, ya’ll.
Speaking of the French, I have gone for yet another interview. Interview number four (4) with our colleagues in Geneva. I think we can sum this one up as a loss on account of a Director, with a sales history, responsible for filling a non-sales position whose responsibilities he admittedly knows nothing about. I’m the only non-sales rep he’s interviewed. If I had a two-litre of Mt. Dew, I’d shove it up Corporate America’s ass.
Whom I kidding? I’d drink it. And then I’d eat the bottle.
And since when did Mormon sisters from the Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder Day Saints begin going door to door spreading the word of God? Awaken by the mysterious, unfamiliar rapping upon my front door yesterday about 2:30-3:00 something in the afternoon, violating what seemed to be a comatose-like afternoon nap, I open the door, wrinkled drawers, hairy legs, shaved chest, full-on erection and all, to find three Mormon sisters. Can’t quite recall the entire conversation. But the invitation to come back in about 15 minutes to talk, allowing me some time to finish my hits and bang my girlfriend, went unfulfilled. I even offered them some Pepsi.
Cold. Turkey.
Kids, I haven’t had a Mt. Dew in 5 days.
And what a week to call yourself a quitter. It’s been a trying time here at Nine-Seven. I have spent more time on an airplane in the last few weeks than I care to admit. And I love to fly. Really, I do. But the soreness my hind quarters feels runs as deep as America’s ill feelings towards the French. I can feel the embolism squish when I sit down, just waiting to break loose and find its way into my lungs. That’s gonna suck, ya’ll.
Speaking of the French, I have gone for yet another interview. Interview number four (4) with our colleagues in Geneva. I think we can sum this one up as a loss on account of a Director, with a sales history, responsible for filling a non-sales position whose responsibilities he admittedly knows nothing about. I’m the only non-sales rep he’s interviewed. If I had a two-litre of Mt. Dew, I’d shove it up Corporate America’s ass.
Whom I kidding? I’d drink it. And then I’d eat the bottle.
And since when did Mormon sisters from the Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder Day Saints begin going door to door spreading the word of God? Awaken by the mysterious, unfamiliar rapping upon my front door yesterday about 2:30-3:00 something in the afternoon, violating what seemed to be a comatose-like afternoon nap, I open the door, wrinkled drawers, hairy legs, shaved chest, full-on erection and all, to find three Mormon sisters. Can’t quite recall the entire conversation. But the invitation to come back in about 15 minutes to talk, allowing me some time to finish my hits and bang my girlfriend, went unfulfilled. I even offered them some Pepsi.
