Recession In The City: Every Day is Festivus For The Rest of Us

As I poured over my resume and cover letter (for the eightieth time in a day) I found myself thinking fondly about my old job, and my old desk (where, beneath my monitor, I had set up an entire "nun bowling" figurine scenario, of which I was particularly fond), which got me to thinking about the movie, Office Space, and poor Milton with his red swingline stapler. All that poor dude ever wanted was to staple shit and watch the squirrels mate - And look where he ended up.

This thought segued into further thought about my own situation, and how, one day when I'm accepting an academy award for best original screenplay, I am going to read two acceptance speeches. The first will comprise all the people I wish to thank. The second will comprise all the people who can fuck off.

Admittedly, this fantasy devolved even further (me at my high school reunion with six Oscars, me at the 2019 Oscars challenging Angelina Jolie to a duel, me becoming the next Real Housewife of New York City) until I had to step back from my own brain. For one thing, I'll never beat Jolie in a duel if I don't start training immediately. For another, I can't go back to my old job and burn the building down. I simply don't have enough matches. Finally, I'm worried I sound like a villain from Austin Powers, determined to destroy all who have wronged me, except I don't have any sharks armed with frickin laser beams and am thus left to wonder what else in my home might be more awesome with laser beams (answer: everything), and as I cannot afford laser beams and have no other suitable tools for villainy, I find myself wanting to punch people I don't even know, simply because they can afford to eat.

I suppose my point is that in situations like this, it's better to laugh than to punch people. No - seriously.