Well, my first (and likely last) editing job is officially over. Have I been paid? Negative. Did I initiate the 'break-up'? Affirmative!
Bad writing is depressing enough without dealing with a prima donna. "You changed what?! Yada yada, ramada, tostada, oli-ada...some more here, a little more there...dippity do dah!!!"
Yes, that's right. I added some clarity to your sad little story.
It isn't that I am bitter. It is that I was stressed working for this person, and this person really has no idea how poorly of a written story it was. And still is. Sometimes we can only patch the wall so much before it falls down anyway. Consider the wall tumbling, fella.
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This of course means I am now unemployed for the summer. Um, help? I have been looking to enlist a sugar daddy only to find no applicants. (One friend told me if I had any idea how little sugar he had I wouldn't be asking.)
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Graduation is officially on May 7th, and to my supreme joy, I have found that my keynote speaker is Senator Bill Frist, the soon to be Republican Presidential Candidate. By supreme joy I mean something along the lines of:
- nails on a chalkboard
- the taste of chalky medicine
- like a really loud and obnoxious alarm clock that goes on and on and on
- like a Pauly Shore movie
- like hearing that Cher is on the tenth year of her super last good bye tour ever, before the real last good bye tour
- like stubbing your toe on a bedrail that is also rusty, requiring a tetanus shot given by Nurse Ratchet on a bad day when her coffee was a little too strong
- like the moment you find out that Clark Gable had halitosis and then you forever recall the scene where he is so close to Vivien Leigh, and she is trying to fight him off but gives in to a long, slow kiss, and you know deep down inside that what she is really thinking is my god, someone get him a breathmint
- like waking up to find Dick Cheney in your bed
In short, supreme joy.
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Ugh.
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