Cans, aluminum cans, Dr. Pepper cans everywhere. The nightstand, the dresser, the bookshelf, and obviously the floor. It’s my drug of choice and flows through my veins. In fact I love it so much that it caused me to have a kidney stone. And kidney- stone is the biological term for pain of child birth through your pee hole with no gift of human life at the end.
The point is that I’m sitting on my bed but in this foldable backrest/armrest/cup holder thing that I got from being bed ridden for weeks from the stone. The bed-chair. My bed office, where I do my best job searching, clothes looking, YouTube watching, and finally rabbit hole falling downing.
The thing is, news has come across my lap that I have a phone interview. Ironically, this is exactly the type business that would come across a lap desk. I’m staying in my pjs, I have no bra on, and I’m searching for my Claritin (recently expired but it’s still good for like a year I think). My secretary is curled up in a ball next to me living the hard life of a dachshund with a stay-at-home mom. I’ve got a lot on my mind including the idea of no longer having a bed office. I talk about getting a job but in my gut I don’t think I want one. I’ve no doubt it’s selfish—but some fish are really pretty and people pay lots of money to get them so…
