Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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the day the music died In my interview for the position I just landed, the woman interviewing me - now my boss - scrunched up the right side of her face and drew in a long breath while reviewing the employment history section of my resume. "I don't know... I mean, are you even old enough to have done all of this?" I knew it. I knew I should have pulled my hair back into a bun... or at least donned some fake eyeglasses. It's like my appearance just stopped dead in its developmental tracks at the age of 15. I know it's a compliment, but I was worried that my youthful appearance would hinder my chances in landing this job. Miraculously, they hired me (must have been the only applicant with a pulse), so I decided that before I started work I'd get a new 'grown-up' hair-do. You know, something other than the Nelson-hippie thang I've got goin' on right now. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the ol' budget and there was no room for improvement to personal appearances. So on January 5th, I bravely marched into the office looking like a Woodstock throw-back... and I got exactly the result I anticipated. During my first week, I held one-on-one meetings with each of the women I supervise, and learned in the first meeting that they had a bet going on how old I was. The woman sitting in my office anted up 22. Twenty-two. Seriously? I held my head high, raking in the remainder of the bets; 24, 28, and 30. Nice one. Maybe I won't chop the hair just yet... I skipped along on my merry path for the next week, relishing my defiance against the ticking clock, until suddenly I was catapulted out of my euphoric Wonderland and back into the sour reality that is mine. Wait...a...minute... What's this?.... is that what I think it is...?A grey hair. My first. And with that, I plummeted back into my comfortable darkness of obsolete depression. So much for the haven of youth. That fickle bitch has ratted me out to Father Time. Goddamnit. I saved that grey hair... taped it to a post-it note and dated it, took it home and logged it in my journal. The day the music died. Damian insists that it's not my first grey hair, it's just the first one I've seen. The first one "upstairs", as Naked Pam so delicately put it. So there's more to come? And down there, to boot? More humiliation, just in case my plate weren't full enough. Excellent. I love having something to look forward to. I guess it was inevitable... but how typical of my purgatory to not even let me enjoy the fact that my staff thought I was 12 years younger than in reality? Even Steven strikes again. |