Pimp My Life
I'm looking for someone to come and assess my life and then trick it the fuck out.
They have this show on MTV, where they bring in shitbox cars and these genius car guys fix them up and give them all these insane features that are really ridiculous on such shitbox frames of cars. It doesn't matter what kind of shape the car's in when it arrives; when it leaves, it looks mighty good. Mighty good. The key, also, is that it takes about 48 hours and no real time or money on the part of the car owner. That's just it: someone else does the pimping. You just relish the results.
So, pretty much, I need someone to come pimp my life.
Don't get me wrong. My life isn't a total shitbox, but it's most definitely shitting the bed. My father will probably flip out when he sees how much I'm saying shit and fuck all over the stupid place, but when you spend the majority of your days with sixth graders in a place where you can't so much as say "shut up" (when all you really want to say is "shut the fuck up"), your profanity count increases exponentially when not in the company of said children at said location. (And, when you're me, you're starting with a indecently high number already, so this is especially unseemly.) But my point is, I want the disclaimer ahead of time that I'm not saying I have a tragic life or anything close to that. I get that because of my health and my family and friends and all that Hallmark goodness, I have nothing to complain about foundationally. Fine.
To begin my rant, I have discovered that the only thing worse than not having a job is having a job. I'd say more, but then I might be back to not having a job, so I'll end it there.
Also, children are disgusting creatures. They're constantly snotting - which is really a combination of blowing their nose, wiping their nose with their sleeve, having their nose just run, picking their nose - and constantly in need of attention, water, paper, pencils, and a general fucking clue.
Public transportation is a crock. It sounds like a freaking earthquake/torando/lightning storm/apocalypse every morning on the 65 bus as the driver fucking charges through the streets. God help me if I ever try to go to work hungover. (Actually, really, God help me). It's just awful though, the stupid noise. On the way home, the 65 is routinely 10-15 minutes late, unless, of course, it's about five minutes early. That's fun.
Every time I think I make any progress on setting up our apartment, I see another fifty billion things that look heinous or need to be fixed. It stresses me out when I'm just trying to sit around and enjoy my life slash TV shows that I have to look at all the crap that needs to be put away. I need fucking Nate Berkus to show up and whip this house into shape pronto. I'm telling you, the place looks like a before shot if I've ever seen one.
Anyway, I'd write more but that would be just depressing. It would be like describing all the things wrong with your car and then having to take it on a massive road trip. Until those dudes show up to pimp it, it's better to leave it alone.
They have this show on MTV, where they bring in shitbox cars and these genius car guys fix them up and give them all these insane features that are really ridiculous on such shitbox frames of cars. It doesn't matter what kind of shape the car's in when it arrives; when it leaves, it looks mighty good. Mighty good. The key, also, is that it takes about 48 hours and no real time or money on the part of the car owner. That's just it: someone else does the pimping. You just relish the results.
So, pretty much, I need someone to come pimp my life.
Don't get me wrong. My life isn't a total shitbox, but it's most definitely shitting the bed. My father will probably flip out when he sees how much I'm saying shit and fuck all over the stupid place, but when you spend the majority of your days with sixth graders in a place where you can't so much as say "shut up" (when all you really want to say is "shut the fuck up"), your profanity count increases exponentially when not in the company of said children at said location. (And, when you're me, you're starting with a indecently high number already, so this is especially unseemly.) But my point is, I want the disclaimer ahead of time that I'm not saying I have a tragic life or anything close to that. I get that because of my health and my family and friends and all that Hallmark goodness, I have nothing to complain about foundationally. Fine.
To begin my rant, I have discovered that the only thing worse than not having a job is having a job. I'd say more, but then I might be back to not having a job, so I'll end it there.
Also, children are disgusting creatures. They're constantly snotting - which is really a combination of blowing their nose, wiping their nose with their sleeve, having their nose just run, picking their nose - and constantly in need of attention, water, paper, pencils, and a general fucking clue.
Public transportation is a crock. It sounds like a freaking earthquake/torando/lightning storm/apocalypse every morning on the 65 bus as the driver fucking charges through the streets. God help me if I ever try to go to work hungover. (Actually, really, God help me). It's just awful though, the stupid noise. On the way home, the 65 is routinely 10-15 minutes late, unless, of course, it's about five minutes early. That's fun.
Every time I think I make any progress on setting up our apartment, I see another fifty billion things that look heinous or need to be fixed. It stresses me out when I'm just trying to sit around and enjoy my life slash TV shows that I have to look at all the crap that needs to be put away. I need fucking Nate Berkus to show up and whip this house into shape pronto. I'm telling you, the place looks like a before shot if I've ever seen one.
Anyway, I'd write more but that would be just depressing. It would be like describing all the things wrong with your car and then having to take it on a massive road trip. Until those dudes show up to pimp it, it's better to leave it alone.
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