Thursday, September 3, 2009

I'm fired.

Yes. I would like to fire myself from all duties that require thought and responsibility. I've pretty much resigned from everything, anyway, but those last few tasks I would just like to be officially fired from.

The art museum: I know I am just a two-hour-a-week volunteer, but have you noticed I sneak out after one? And I make copies for goodness sake.

Real job: Does me saying, "Don't give me thinky things to do," mean anything? Would tattooing EMPTY on my forehead make it any clearer that I am not capable of using my brain to solve problems beyond what to eat for lunch?

there is a plate of chicken parmesan in the fridge calling my name...

Wedding: Do I need to write anything here? I think I've done enough spontaneous public sobbing.

Chores: This is one area I need not be fired from! I thank my parents for graciously accepting my resignation letter...soaked in sweat and tears for added effect.

Let's just make this effective immediately. There is a book I've been waiting to tackle and a bottle of tequila that is dying to become a margarita.

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