I crane my neck a little to catch a glimpse of his face, but I could only see half of it. Struggling to see further is futile. I would have to fall off my seat to achieve the goal. I see his arm moving. His arm blends a little too well with his shirt. They are both brown. He looks like a tree without my contacts on.

My train of thought is interrupted by a phone call from somebody named Laurence, offering me a writing stint at PJ Lhuiller. Right. Copywriting, I presume. One that would be a further insult to my skills.

I can't imagine myself writing for them.

"Sangla", "Subasta", "Minimum Interest".

Do I really want it? Or do I just like the feeling of being offered a job? What do I know about pawnshops anyway? If you ask me, I'm not going to take that stupid exam they're offering. Besides, they told me to bring my transcript of records, which I won't have until I have the drive to go back to school. HAHAHAHA! That could take years.

Life is good. But it doesn't get better when shitty jobs come after you.

In the meantime, I content myself with having a job my friends wish they had.