My job is crazy. Yesterday, I googled ##### for my client/patient. Well, I did it for both of us really. She does freelance writing for direct sales—indirect?—or whatever the fuck you call Mary Kay and all that. I suggested we should start writing for those ##### parties people have. We’ve been joking about it for a few weeks now, and yesterday I pulled up this one company’s website and read her some of the copy. “This synthetic-skinned, pink, super-girth, stank-resistant #### is a crowd pleaser,” and shit like that. I’m hoping she helps me out with freelance writing, so I can tell my boss to suck it any time I want.
There was this other lady who was into vacuum cleaners. Expensive ones. I said, “Like those 500$ Dysons?” She said, “No way! I’m talking 5,000$ at least.” “Holy fuck!” I said. She was awesome. She had me google this older vacuum called “The Rainbow” which uses a water tank. Their slogan is “Wet dirt can’t fly.” That became our motto. We also researched ##### until we both started having nightmares. When she was done with her treatments, she gave me the sweetest card I’ve ever gotten, and I cried twice.
I should mention that I give magnetic treatments for depression. I’ve had the treatment and it saved my life. Really. It’s not some hocus pocus shit either like those bracelets you see on the golf channel or in voodoo shops. This is baller-ass science. Anyway, I hang out with sad people five days a week for six weeks and watch them get better. We talk about EVERTHING. Sometimes it's fucking awkward.
Shit! I just realized that I’m breaking all sorts of ethical rules by writing this, even without putting the names in. Dammit! So, I can’t tell you about the sweetest ex-##### alive, or how she wanted to #### in the #### one Friday when no one else was in the office.
Speaking of that, I’ve realized that I’m sort of a real-life virgin/whore. Really. My girlfriend, the Super Fabulous Elle-Dawg helped me figure this out while I was talking about how to present myself on my website and all of that. Blah blah I love strippers and talking about anal I’m scared to kiss girls blah blah I want people to think I’m nasty blah I want people to know I’m not blah Hemingway blah Bukowski blah I’m a fucking Buddhist for fuck sake blah. Nothing really more to say about that, besides I’m the perfect example of a virgin/whore—without the virgin part or the vagina part or the actually selling myself for money.
Another part of my job is telling “my story” to potential clients/patients. I’ve almost cried a few times telling people this shit. It was pretty rough after all. Most of the time though, I’m fucking sick of it. (Maybe I am an actual whore.) I just want to hand them a bulleted list. It would look like this:
- Grad school
- Trying to bang bitches
- Anxiety attacks
- Suicidal ideation
- No bitches
- Meds suck
- Moving in with Mom
- No pussy
- Exploding pancreas and diabetes
- Suicidal ideation
- Two doctors and therapist and a bunch more shitty meds
- Moving out of mom’s
So that’s my job.