Philosopher out of work; Sales associate wanted

We may rebuke the ant for endlessly working to build a colony that we all know will eventually be destroyed by some sadistic child. But, really, how are any of us different? Do you know what I do for money? I meticulously manipulate t-shirts into neat little origami squares. I tri-fold jeans and evenly distribute them into perfectly stacked denim columns. Beauty has known no truer form.

And then I stand back and watch it crumble at the hands of those with eyes untrained to recognize contemporary art outside of a museum or gallery. I watch children and childish adults tear apart my creations. O, my craft! They demolish you and I breathe life into you!

Life is a continuous fruitless ritual of construction and maintenance. Build a home and clean it weekly. Repair things monthly. Grow a garden and spend your days pruning and clearing weeds. Janitors, plumbers, CHIROPRACTORS, for God's sake, all make a living off the art of maintenance.

We create--as humans are so inclined to do--and then we must endure the endless task of maintenance. And what of the ultimate creation? What happens when we create another human? We sign an 18 year contract in which we must attend to every repair this creation may require. Tooth cleaning, braces, antibiotics, orthotics, doctor's injections, girls' rejections, nervous breakdowns, emotional meltdowns. There's no end in sight!

I am just now realizing that I am merely an actor in the farce we call "The Human Experience" at best. Otherwise, I am a bird working tirelessly to build a nest only to watch winter's harsh winds disassemble it.

I am not a cynic, I swear. I'm a realist. And we are all a bunch of junk cars. "Service engine soon" just took on a whole new meaning.

Cash or credit?

Today I thought I may need a job before I go back to my summer job. I can't believe it will be a year since I started working at The Bowl. Anyway, there's some dinky little dress shop in the mall that has a sign in its window. The sign reads: Now accepting applications, inquire inside. Or something of that nature. So I thought... "Me? In a dress shop?.." But I inquired anyway.

The manager was an evil Russian commie and she looked me up and down. Several times. Then she did some inquiries for herself. She asked me how old I am. I told her I'm 18 because I am. She said, "No, no. That's far too young."

My first instinct was the thank her politely and walk out. But then a little demon popped up onto my shoulder and whispered in my ear "What would Daniel Shays do?" Before I knew what I was doing, I came back at her with, "Isn't that age discrimination? I'm of legal working age..." I don't know why I said that or if I even used the term "age discrimination" properly. Anyway, I just wanted to shake her up a bit. And she looked worried... Then I told her my dad's a lawyer and I asked if I could use her phone.

So maybe I'm not selling prom dresses to fat, adolescent Christmas hams. And I'm not making $6.75 an hour. And I'm not picking up conversational Russian from my would-be manager's long-distance phone calls. But does it matter? I am so easily satisfied.