My Glamorous Life.

Huzzah! I am well on my way to being a tramp. I mean temp.
Nothing says you're an utterly expendable, talentless transient like being a temp. At one point, I compared being a temp to legalized prostitution, but to my chagrin, prostitutes actually get paid more by the hour and get to make their own schedules. What makes the whole thing even sadder is that you actually have to interview at these staffing places and take all these tests (as if they had some minimum iq requirement or something) just to be a some shmuck that gets all the crap work dumped on them and then gets to take the blame for every office accessory that ever goes missing.

Recruiter: So, what brings you to us?
Me: Clearly, I am desperate for employment. And I miss the warm, synthetic smell of copy machines.
Recruiter: What kind of skills do you have?
Me: My old boss used to say, "Jenn, If there is one thing you're good at, it's getting shit done." But I'm also good at making other people do shit. And I'm can talk a lot of shit too, which comes in handy when dealing with shit bags. I'm fluent in shit. Additionally, my taciturn disposition and curious, singular nature make me the perfect candidate for a professional scapegoat. I confess, I desire nothing more than to be accused of being the office kleptomaniac/mini-fridge raider/voodoo practitioner.

Meanwhile, tomorrow my mother is meeting with former president Bill Clinton to discuss her prospects with Hilary's campaign. Biatch.

I swear, every day brings me closer to the realization that I was meant to be royalty of some sort.
Or an elvis impersonator.
Or an ice cream taster.
Or a professional voice actor.
Or the spiritual leader of some doomsday cult.