Jobs fly fast and furiously at me although none include working with Vin Diesel.
Virtually none of the jobs match my skills.
Although I did click on something but it turns out I misread it. The job was for "ware" house operator. "Ware" house operator.
Sadly, the wretched wreck that has become my body precludes me from jobs that require me to "lift up to 100 pounds over head and toss baggage on to airline runway."
I cannot "stand up to 12 hours on concrete flooring covered in college student's urine."
I am unable to "carry undernourished vegan hipsters to their fifth-floor walk-up."
Not that I'm being picky.
There's just stuff I can't do.
I don't have "soft and supple fingers to check larger men for woodland ticks."
No longer I am able to "dodge oncoming traffic while responding to the distress cries of a wounded raccoon."
And sadly, I cannot "dance for hours with elderly woman who have enormous bank accounts.
For those of my readers unaware, I've longed believed in the occasional humor piece to serve as a sorbet to serious issues.
Thanks for reading.
Please unto you, my brothers and sisters.