Dirty Jobs

Once upon a time in an office far, far away was a young woman who quite enjoyed her job. While the office space itself may have been somewhat cramped, she had the pleasure of working with a lovely group of people and spent many a morning looking forward to seeing them. She wore beautiful clothes and had shoes to die for. Her coiffeur was always stylishly turned out and her makeup; impeccable. When seen galivanting about town, one couldn’t help but notice the confident bounce in her step. Then one day she had a nervous breakdown, bought a farm and spent the remainder of her days looking like shit and too busy to eat anything but cereal out of the box. To her utmost horror and dismay she once pulled into Save On parking lot wearing, wait for it….
gum boots! No more was she the bouncy and confident one, but rather a hideous, slimy, slithering thing who had stooped so low that she now wore baseball hats rather than bother with her hair! ‘Tis a sad tale I speak of, no question. Thankfully, the character in the story bares no resemblance whatsoever to myself, although there may be some tiny parallels. Like, teeny tiny. For instance, tonight especially, I wonder what I’m doing, exactly. One of the piglets is sick and I’ve seen enough death on the farm to be fairly certain he won’t make the night, although I hope I’m wrong. Paul goes to his own dirty job in the morning which leaves me with the downright filthy vocation that I willingly, I repeat, willingly chose. WTF? A death on the farm is bad enough, but what’s worse is being the one that has to find it, feel bad about it, and lastly, figure out what the hell to do with it, if you catch my drift. This all takes place before 9am on a good day and I can’t help but think that I could be seated at a computer, sipping coffee, and complaining that my feet hurt, rather than play my current role which can consist of a multitude of disgusting, sad and just plain gross tasks.
Mind you, disgusting, sad, and just plain gross are also words one might use when summing up my previous jobs ( you know, the ones that actually resulted in a paycheck.)
So my next question is; is it possible to farm in shoes to die for, or will I die farming in shoes that kill me?
If you catch my drift.

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