Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Yesterday, I had the next three months perfectly planned and tied up in a cozy little corporate internship in Tampa. This afternoon, I watched as those plans slipped through my fingers and shattered into millions of pieces like a priceless vase hitting a marble floor. My mother, without missing a beat, asked if I was still coming home. "Why? What would I do?" I returned. She says I can clean her house or maybe try my old job/torture session at the book store. Ahhhh, the bookstore. Nothing says summer like pushing self-help books and trashy novels, all while forcing smiles and genuine assurances of the fine quality of the author's work. "Yes, ma'am, I do think Danielle Steele is one of the greatest authors ever. No, sir, I don't think Star Trek novels will ever be 'uncool'. Of course we have the 2,356th Helping of Chicken Soup for the Christian Teen Pet Lover's Soul." My father thinks I should be optimistic because there is still a minute, microscopic chance that the hardass who is overly proficient at shitting out red tape could still change his mind and let me work for his company wage-free. I'll start holding my breath tomorrow.
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