My job consists…

My job consists of basically masking my contempt for the assholes in charge, and, at least once a day, retiring to the men’s room so I can jerk off while I fantasize about a life that doesn’t so closely resemble Hell.

Lester Burnham, American Beauty, 1999


Whenever I am dissatisfied with my current status of employment (notice I avoid use of the word “career”), I hear this quote in my head, and begin my own vivid fantasies of a better job, and a better income. As an exercise is optimism, I will now make an entirely self-indulgent list of all the things I will buy myself when I make more money, and feel more secure in my ability to spend and enjoy it.

  • A Samsung Galaxy Note III (or whichever is newest)
  • An owl theme for my bathroom, including shower curtain and hooks, mirror cling-art, towels, bath mat, toilet seat, trash can, and sink items.
  • A luxury shower head with at least 5 optimum speeds, with a water-saving feature and a detachable head.
  • A wrought iron framed four-posted bed with canopy hanging options, California King size if strictly possible, and a Tempur-Pedic mattress to go with it.
  • A corner-capable computer desk with organizing drawers, tower compartment, and small shelves for appliances.
  • A dresser and end table set to match my bed frame.
  • A pretty, and of course matching, floor lamp with an adjustable bit for reading.
  • A full set of matching bedclothes, including sheet, fitted sheet, comforter, and pillow cases.
  • A fully-equipped and customized personal computer set up with 5.1 digital surround sound and a big ass television screen as a monitor.
  • An 80″ television for the living room, because I’m’a need that 51″ for my computer, obviously.
  • Matching food and water dishes for the dogs.
  • Billions more delightful clothing options for Broly and Pippin, and especially a leather biker jacket for Broly, because he needs to match his mommy.
  • Stay-sharp kitchen blade set — the kind that cut through tanks and shit.
  • Some fancy full sets of cookware by like Martha Stewart or Paula Deen or Giada — pots, pans, skillets, roasters, bakers, boilers, broilers, ALL OF IT.
  • High quality utensils for the kitchen — everything those fuckers use on television that make you feel inferior for using the biggest spoon you have for everything because, fuck you, I don’t have a god damn ladle.
  • A meat scale.
  • A professional stand-up mixer.
  • An area rug for the living room to reduce thumpy-thump noises when we walk.
  •  Bitchin’ wall clocks for the major rooms, with fun themes to match each room.
  • Fun, beautiful picture frames for every room of the house. EVERY. ROOM. OF. THE. HOUSE.
  • Squishy house slippers.
  • New living room furniture, like couches and recliners for being super grown up, and foot stools and a coffee table and one of those amazing entertainment centers that makes you feel like you definitely need to buy more shit for your television and sound system, BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK NOT.
  • S H O E S
  • J E W E L R Y
  • H A T S
  • C L O T H E S
  • B O O K S
  • A Kindle Fire HD, oooo. (Update: My completely amazing boyfriend made this very dream a reality on Christmas 2013. One down!)
  • Beautiful cherry wood bookshelves, yeaaah.
  • A brand new XBox 360 with a gigantic hard drive.
  • A new laptop, for portable author shit.
  • V I D E O  G A M E S 
  • M O V I E S
  • Owl, wolf, werewolf, food, music, art, fashion, dog, house, movie, sex, and love things. All of it. Ever.

And, in case anyone was wondering where the selfishness would end, I would love to make enough to be able to give. Every seen those heartbreaking commercials about puppies, kitties, and elephants? Those kill me. I feel the shame.

What do you fantasize about?


About RicoChey

I'm just an unmarried, childless, thirty-something high school dropout with big ideas and a small attention span. Weave drunkenly behind me as I meander through my own life: a winding path of musings on life, relationships, food, the few politics I can stomach discussing, and probably really dumb stuff like the ratio of Sex and the City episodes wherein Carrie does and does not appear to be wearing extensions.
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