I've been in here for like nineteen hours, with breaks for food and water and poop.
But whatever, she's foxy. And she dresses really...uh...funny-looking, when she goes out in the world. The collision of pure, controlled image with bizarre collage-looking fashion aesthetic is kind of refreshing. Anyway, I had a dream where she was a ski lift attendant.
Now that I've been doing what I've been doing with the rest of the day, since I put off everything, including textual narcissism, I've decided that I'd rather bitch about that. Namely, Writing Cover Letters. Who can imagine a more contrived, codified crock of shit than the cover letter. I mean it. You go to some FORMAT website, and it's like playing Mad Libs with bits and pieces of your resume in order to get a job. Except it isn't funny (except perhaps to the HR staff who crumple up all your pretty little lies and try to score some sick three-pointers in a game of resume H-O-R-S-E). I guess what it really amounts to is showing your willingness to toe the line and consent to the ABJECT BULLSHIT of THE JOB MARKET.
Guten tag, English Major. Arbeit Macht Frei.