As I was about to slip on the headphones, this middle-aged guy sitting next to me saw the Discman, chuckled and said, “Whoa -- they still make those? Those’re, like, antiques now! I had no idea they still made those!”
Yeah, they still make breath mints too, motherfucker.
I think I’ll stop by the Best Buy in East Brunswick this Saturday or Sunday and finally join the Pod People.
While I'm there, I can gaze upon all the pretty computers and cameras which my ass can’t afford -- at least not at my current income. I work at a bookstore for slightly north of minimum wage. My parents and relatives often tell me, “You’re a college graduate! Why’re you working there?” I have a degree in English, guys! For someone with an English degree, working at a bookstore for slightly north of minimum wage makes me a success story.
The average English degree graduate.
Maybe I should try authoring some crappy romance novels for end's meet. Crappy romance novels sell big. Not a week goes by without some homely middle-aged woman coming to the register with two or three of those damn books. Some of these women have facial hair which puts mine to shame (then again, I don’t have much; Mr. Fallon calls what I have a “crustasche” ). Not to be mean, but perhaps if these gals picked up a Gilette razor every now and then, maybe they wouldn’t have to live vicariously through Princess Gwendolyn or whatever saucy, big-bosomed wench occupies the pages of that potpourri-scented feces posing as literature.
Maybe I should write novels aimed at teenage girls. Like the Twilight or Clique series. All I know about Twilight is that it focuses on the love between a girl and a classmate who happens to be a vampire. I don’t know why the vampire, for all his supernatural powers and relative freedom, would want to attend high school; I presume the thrill of geometry class. Or maybe this immortal is also an idiot and is literally repeating tenth grade for the hundredth time. At The Store, we have a shitload of copies of these books; we could make our own Stonehenge out of them. The Clique series, I know even less about. From the covers, I gather it’s about a group of popular, attractive, skanky teenage girls. The newest one was released this past week, titled P.S. I Loathe You. Previous titles include Bratfest at Tiffany’s, Invasion of the Boy Snatchers, and Dial “L” for Loser. Suggestion for the next title: “V” for Vaginitis.
Maybe I should write a fun children’s book like Diary of a Wimpy Kid. The latest installment is titled Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw. I’m guessing that’s the one where the wimpy kid finally starts firing an Uzi in the hallways of his school.
Or maybe I’ll write a positive-thinking, bullshit metaphysics book like The Secret, which states that if you want something -- like really, really want it -- then you’ll receive it. Law of attraction, it’s called. Note to Rhonda Byrne: Hillary Rodham Clinton wants her money back.
Ah, maybe I should do what everybody expects a guy with an English degree to do: TEACH. Like go into the 'hood and teach thugs how to love Shakespeare and shit. Yes, Tyrese, Richard III was one of da original gangstas! I could write about those experiences and hopefully have the memoir adapted to film.
Anyway, it’s off to sleep.
