I’ve cleaned every surface in this apartment: every tile, every crevice, every hidden corner littered with dust bunnies the size and attitude of Texas. Alas, I’ve nothing left to clean.
I always said that I’d strip this place bare once I had the free time to do so, much like I’d strip the sleeves from Britney’s trembling shoulders if ever given the chance to hit her, baby, one more time. Two weeks into unemployment and that mission is accomplished (the cleaning mission, not the Britney mission, you pervert). Now what the hell do I do?
I suppose I could look for a job; that’s what any ambitious worker-bee would do. If I were any ambitious worker-bee I would put my shoulder to the wheel, as the Mormons might say, and find me some fucking gainful employment. After all, I’m a healthy blonde college graduate with seriously long legs. Finding a job shouldn’t be that hard.
But I don’t want to be a prostitute, nor do I want to be an actor. I’d consider becoming a groupie on Britney’s current world tour, but I’m afraid that the stultifying conversation would undermine the great sex, assuming Britney has any idea what to do with those boobs.
I suppose I’m left with two options: 1) I can continue to watch every episode of “The Young and the Restless” or 2) I can go back to work as a full time web designer and consumerize my fucking template until my soul is as dead and withered as Joan Rivers.
My God, the decisions.
In the meantime, I’m going to mop the kitchen floor again. It doesn’t really need it, considering that I polished it with an Oral B toothbrush just yesterday. But I can’t watch Jack Abbot screw anyone up the ass anymore; I don’t care that the Abbots are the most powerful family in Genoa City. I mean, come on, Jack has nothing on Britney.