So I got this job, like a real job.
Like with full benefits, so I can get my lady parts examined and my breasts checked and maybe even my teeth cleaned.
AND a fully matched retirement fund, paid vacations, free lunches, paid training…. It was really pretty and sparkly.
PLUS a real paycheck with real dough (unlike the fake paychecks I’ve been writing out to myself just to feel important).
And the company said things like: We want to help you grow to your fullest potential within the company.
And I felt special.
I cried a little bit when I signed my name on the dotted line, and I may have seen unicorns dance before my eyes.
Then the HR person sent me over to get fingerprinted.
Then all the unicorns fell to the floor in a giant heap and my crying turned to worry, because there was that one time I broke into Sizzler as a teenager to steal the little salt and pepper things (I’ll do anything on a dare).
I was then sent over to submit a drug test and I worried because I couldn’t remember if I smoked pot at the Christmas party or not, which is probably not a good sign.
So here I sit behind the safety of my computer monitor as the FBI digs through the pages of my life to determine if I am employable and ‘safe’ to work amongst other people.
Sure hope they don’t uncover that special time in my life when I ate small children for breakfast and sold Voo-Doo dolls on the street corner so I could buy crack cocaine. I also hope that the brief period I spent poking small dogs in the eyeballs for sheer pleasure doesn’t show up. That would be embarrassing.