But Seriously, Say No To Toilet Sex
I have no fucking clue what I should be when I grow up.
Note I used the word “should” instead of “want” as I am pretty keen on what it is I WANT to do. If I had it my way, I would get paid to sit around and do creative writing all day. HOW BEAUTIFUL A DREAM IS THAT? I could be my own boss, do something I love, and things like “wearing a bra” and “having a good attitude” would be totally optional. Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to provide excellent customer service to entitled dick-holes who deserve to be high-fived in the face with a clipboard. I WOULD BE GETTING PAID TO BE FREE. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Then I wake up and realize the fact that, in the present moment, my dreams of being paid for my creative brain sauce isn’t terribly practical. I can’t very well go to my boss tomorrow and say, “I’ve decided to leave the company so I can go be a free spirit and sit around making word art and hope to get paid for it some day.”. Okay, my boss is cool enough to where I could probably say that but she’d laugh and say, “okay, see you tomorrow”. Because she knows what’s up in life and also knows how much I hate change. That is one thing I’m grateful for in my current job in that the people I work for are pretty damn awesome, but what I do for a living sucks. I am a million dollars in debt* to the Student Loan Overlords just to have a job where I sit and not be smart all day. Very rarely do I get to do things like “critical thinking” and “working with my hands”, and these are two activities I enjoy thoroughly. I’ve always had this thought that I would one day finish my degree and become a real nurse, and I might still do this, but it’s expensive and time consuming, and I still need an income while going to school so I can afford my children.
So what then? If writing and nursing isn’t in my cards at the moment, what should I do?
I recently turned inward for guidance. This was the resulting conversation I had with myself:
Self: Come to me, my child, tell me of your burdens that I may lend a hand in solving.
Me: Why are you talking like that?
Self: Just tell me what the fuck your problem is.
Me: “sigh”… I need a new career path. I’m not fulfilled in my work and I still don’t have an Audi in the driveway.
Self: Don’t you have more interesting problems? Like your house was recently invaded by rabid sugar-gliders or your boobs are too big and they sometimes cause car accidents when you’re jogging on the side of the road?
Me: I wish…
Self: Hmm. Well, you want to be a writer, and that’s cool, but you need to work while you get your shit together.
Self: And you’d make a damn fine nurse, but more loans in your anti-wallet is a shitty idea.
Me: Okay, now you’re just being an asshole.
Self: Yes. It’s what I do. Have you considered being a hooker?
Me: Um… no. Can’t say that I have. Last I checked it’s legally and socially frowned at and a great way to get one of those toilet-seat diseases.
Self: Toilet-seat diseases?
Me: Yeah, you know, “oh, I have this STD but it’s cool because I got it from a public toilet” diseases.
Self: The fuck? Is toilet screwing a thing?
Me: I guess so. I don’t know how else you would get diseases from sitting on a toilet seat. Last I checked, you have to actually have sex with someone to catch crotch-rot, merely sitting on their genitals won’t cause a problem, so I’m guessing there’s some folks out there that like to get it on with public johns. But whatever. I’m no toilet-scientist so what do I know.
Self: God, people are weird. Ooo, there! You could be a free-lance toilet cleaner. Do your part for society by preventing the spread of toilet-seat disease. Also you can educate public bathroom users against the dangers of fucking toilets while you’re in there. Make up some fancy pamphlets to hand out and shit. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS, OF COURSE.
Me: Hmm, well I would at least be working with my hands, but that’s not very mentally stimulating. Plus fuck that. I don’t even like cleaning my own toilets.
Self: hmm… OOOOOO, how about a Master Kegel Trainer? You know, you can lead cooter toning classes and do one on one training and help women achieve their vaginal fitness goals! Think of how rewarding that would be!
Me: So.. lemme get this straight, you think I should sit in a room and simultaneously clench my vagina with other women while cheering them on? “Keep squeezing! Work that cooter! You can do it!”
Self: Or you can all stand, whatever.
Me:… are we all wearing spandex?
Me: Okay, that’s where I draw the line.
Self: Geez, you’re such a baby…. Hmm… what about a phone sex operator? They make good money, you know*.
*I was informed of this a few weeks ago. Something to the tune of 125 dollars an hour.
Me: no way, I hate talking on the phone. Plus, what would happen if someone asked me to do something awkward like call him daddy while imitating a sheep or something? I’m not good at that kind of sexy talk.
Self: This is true.
Self: OH MY GOD. I think I just found a loop hole in the whole “being a hooker is illegal” while combining your desire to nurse people..
Me: Oh God….
Self: Shut up and listen… WHAT IF…. you were a traveling handy nurse?
Me: ….what in the hazy blue fuck is a “handy nurse”
Self: You travel to handicapped men’s houses and give them handies! THINK ABOUT IT…. everyone masturbates, right? And men kind of need to otherwise their balls get backed up and they explode or something? What about those poor saps who have broken arms or had them blown off in some weird grilling accident and are single or their partners don’t like touching their penises?
Me: Geez, that’s like insult to injury…
Self: EXACTLY! Those poor souls must have painful balls the size of grapefruit all because they’re physically incapable of expelling their man-batter. THAT’S WHERE YOU COME IN! You travel house to house and help them take care of business. For a fee, of course.
Me: I don’t see how this is a hooker loophole. Plus, I don’t think Caveman would appreciate me doing that sort of thing.
Self: IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S ACTUAL HOOKING… you would be doing it in the name of medicine. Plus it’s sort of like charity work, you know, helping the disabled? And you could wear a nurse uniform so it’ll be totally legit! But not scrubs though. I was thinking those short, white, old-school dresses with the shoes and a little nurse hat…
Me: I’m not talking to you anymore. You’re awful.
And that’s when I decided to just be grateful for the job I have and also I should stop talking to myself because I give terrible advice.