Happy Friday, y’all! Please read this fascinating exploration of what’s happening to some poor former Conde Nast staffers here. (I know, they did work at a bridal mag. But now is not a time to harbor prejudice.)
In other news, YUD has finally done some housekeeping that was in drastic need of being kept. In this past week, she finally:
Having a prescription refilled, you would think, would be an easy task. I mean, it’s not brain surgery—it’s just the medicine you take after your brain surgery.
The hard part should be snagging an appointment with the doctor of your choice, or the interminable wait in one of those cold rooms wearing a very last-season paper gown and trying not to get caught as you rifle through the cabinets, or maybe convincing the doctor that you need whatever it is in whatever dosage and then trotting that scrawl-covered snip of paper over to your local pharmacy.
Once you’ve done that, you’re golden … Right?
photo credit: chicago boulevardier
When you’re at home all day “working” (i.e., attempting to tie up certain freelance assignments and cajole people into talking to you for others, taking the Myers-Briggs personality test (result: ENFJ), and posting on your delightful, humorous, oh-so-2009 unemployment blog) you experience things that you would not if you were instead ensconced on the 23rd floor of an office building with high-powered air conditioners and plush carpeting.
For example, this: A man died in my apartment building last night. I am not sure exactly who he was, as the guy who came (and failed) to remedy the leak in my toilet was rather tight-lipped about the whole thing, but I got, “Grey hair, with the bike. Victor. Third floor.”
Future's So Bright
Oh, no, it’s the moon, hanging all low over my East Village street, lackadaisical, pretty lit, just like … an unemployed person?
But look how bright and golden and shiny it is! How full and perfectly round! Look at that potential!
