Boy howdy, seems like graduation is right around the corner, and aren’t I more excited than a necrobestialitist at the Kentucky Derby! While most of my cantankerous classmates in oh-eight are spending their last few weeks at Wesleyan worrying about their ambiguous futures and crying because it’s the last time they will ever watch “Top Chef” with their friends in the living room of 17 Fountain on May 7, 2008, at 9:00 Eastern Daylight Time, I’m living a carefree life.
Unlike some of my peers, I, thankfully, have my shit together. I am like a rabbit, my shit is so together. I have a job for next year, and it is a great job. It’s not so much a job, actually, as much as it is a calling. A calling that has been reaching out to me since I entered this world, forever whispering my name through the grapevine of existence. Also, it is a calling because I’m working as a telemarketer. Phones are fun!
But that’s not all. I’m also working with children! Children who are poor! And another color than me! I know, right? Jackpot! People say working with children can be a challenge; they test your patience, push your buttons, and call you “gringo” when you respond to questions about Tony Montana by talking about an NFL quarterback. But you know what else was a challenge? Learning to speak Malay fluently. But I needed to if I wanted to work with children. They don’t just hand you a job like assistant cargo pocket seamstress at the second highest producing child sweatshop in all of Kuala Lumpur when you hand them a Wesleyan degree. And I’ll be damned if I can’t make the best damned pair of Abercrombie & Fitch twill shorts you’ve ever worn!
Now, it’s pretty hard to find a swanky bachelor pad these days, especially in the gliteratti hot spots like San Francisco, Dubai, and Vatican City. But a little housing market know-how has given me a leg up above the rest of you Heater Mills McCartneys. To find a place to crash, you’ve got to know the language. When an apartment is advertised as “2 BR, 1.5 BATH, HC, RC, near SW,” you might think you’re looking at a rent-controlled place near the subway with 2 bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms, and high ceilings. But, in fact, as I have learned in acquiring my dandy piece of property, that translates into “2 Batteries-Ready, 1.5 Biodiesel Accelerated Torque-and-Horsepower, Handles Curves, Radio-Controlled, near a Subway Sandwich Shop.” So now, instead of shelling out $2,000 a month for some busted, STATIONERY closet in Williamsburg, I’ve got myself a baller-ass remote control car that I can take ANYWERE I WANT. As long as I stay within 400 feet of the Subway in Astoria, which is right next to the charging station for my RC car. Zoom, I’m gone suckers!