The good news is that I got a new job as a copywriter. In the last two days I’ve been compared to Elaine from Seinfeld (hate that show)…
Probably because we have the same pantsuit.
…and Peggy from Mad Men, which I’m not sure is a compliment or insult, and I will presently immerse myself in all five seasons to decide whether to thank or punish these people.
In this case, I just wish we had the same suit.
Rather than me think about it, though, why don’t you tell me who I am in the following poll (answer correctly, I can see your name when you vote (not true)).
Well, thanks for your time! I will tally the results and then start talking/dressing/acting like whichever person I have been decreed to be.
I am pretty damn excited for this job. I will be writing the item descriptions for the store’s website, and mind you, it is a pretty big, pretty famous store. Like, a lot of people will read these descriptions in which I say things like, “Wear these Superman undies and save lives — in only your underwear” (not the best, but I’m not in the zone right now), and “Your boo will absotively swoon when you don this little polka dotted, princess-wasted, over-hemmed, fully-tulled yellow dress thing” (I have a bit to learn about fashion).
Also, I will include the word “swoon” in at least one piece a day because my friend/fashion-and-art blogger over at The Corn Fed Artist dies a little every time a swoon is born.
But, my co-ASers, this good news does not come without a bit of reality.
The job is a contracting job, which I’ve stayed away from since I was diagnosed. I’ve come across some great contracting opportunities, but didn’t even bother applying because to those of us who need insurance, we can’t just leap out of the fat, secure arms of insurance at our current job, even if it pays minimum wage.
We take these drugs to take back our lives. They let us run free and live for today and carpe diem and do, like, 70 other platitude-things, but what does it cost us in the end? We can’t pack up and teach English in the Australian outback to Aborigines. We can’t backpack around South America for a year. We can’t even take a contracting job that pays more than our current coffee-shop job.
And hence, I have said, “Full-time? No thanks! I will work here thirty hours a week, and I will keep working my minimum wage job 24 hours a week, and I will work myself into an early grave!” Because even making so much more an hour will not cover the cost of freaking Humira.
On the bright side:
I got a job!