Your Unemployed Daughter

photo credit: rdcapasso

Fascinating news from the New York Post today: More than two-thirds of city residents hear their neighbors having sex!

Most intriguing to me is that I’ve actually never heard my neighbor—who shrieks at weird times in the middle of the night in seeming temper tantrums, throws things at walls, and blows her nose quite loudly, along with other annoying acoustical habits (just today she was blasting The Office theme song at 9 in the morning)—in any sort of passionate throes.

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photo credit: elbragon

I am admittedly not a big football person. My last Superbowl may, in fact, have actually involved recording that infamous and truly terrible shuffle on the fam’s new VHS recorder and then watching it over and over to the discontent of the aforementioned fam, except little bro, who may or may not have helped choreograph some alternative dance numbers for a special living room performance.

However, maybe it’s all the boxing classes and an ensuing and rather newfound admiration for things athletical—especially things involving jumping around and catching high-velocity objects and headspins and major agility and speed and grace and violence—but I was pretty impressed with those players last night. And quite excited that the Saints won (maybe it’s a Southern thing, or maybe I just love gold pants). But anyways: ___ ___! (I can’t bring myself to actually type it as it goes against my deepest copy instincts, but ya’all know what I’m saying.)

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photo credit: Guilherme Sagas

Although she would be loathe to admit it, there are some ways in which YUD has been a late bloomer. For instance, although her mom made her get her first bra at the relatively unripened grade of sixth (and yes, it was mortifying), she didn’t truly learn to drive a car until past her 16th birthday (there were extenuating circumstances due to a certain soiree held while certain parents were out of town; the party-thrower was summarily punished via grounding, being required to write an essay on morals, and having to apologize to the neighbors (also mortifying).

Not thoroughly broken, however, YUD approached the end of her grounding only to engage in an episode of inebriation—this is the “I think I smoked some pills” incident of ‘92—that at this point should just be called a good learning experience about not mixing blackberry schnapps with Glenfiddich.

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photo credit: dead redhead

There’s a special type of person I’d forgotten about since I got laid off and all through my summer of working from home, when the only toilet was mine and mine alone—and heavens to betsy, I sat right down on the throne of that porcelain god, just like a red-blooded American.

It is only with re-introduction to a certain type of employment community, and bathroom, that I have refreshed myself regarding the existence of said person.

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