 |
| More... Outside the Box A collection of humorous editorials by Manda Ebner |
| Work: the only 8-hour paid break Work. What a glorious excuse for professionalism. My entire summer has been consumed by this five day a week party that is my job. To try and and sound even more busy, I work two jobs, one as an "intern" and one as a "work study," titles that carry approximately the same amount of prestige as "lil' bitch." What amuses me even more are the activities I spend my time on while at work that I have the audacity to call projects. My main project, like so many others, is email. Checking it, writing it, using it to register at collegeclub.com, whatever fits my fancy. Right now I'm working on surfing the net to find cool websites to then forward to all my friends through emails with the subject "DUDE YOU GOTTA SEE THIS!!!" They in turn go to the site while at their alleged jobs, instant message me while there to tell me how cool it is, and then we all email each other again to discuss our exact percentage of sluttiness. I like to call this project market research. A secondary project, though close in importance, is making websites. Now, folks, don't get this confused with valid information exchange. Instead, I like to make sites with 300K of visual effects and drunken stories. All of my close friends must sign the guestbook repeatedly in order to confuse others with idiotic inside jokes. Basically, I run a dancing-monkey-flashing-swear words-countdown-to-my-birthday-cutely-titled site. This project is ongoing, and I justify it to the boss as progressive website design. The boss himself is another one of my favorite parts about work. He's a great guy, honestly, and at times I feel almost guilty for stealing his well-earned money to feed my 8-hour-a-day obsession with computer Solitaire. Then the guilt fades into realization that he was the one who blindly hired a college student whose skills are limited to beer bongs and pick up lines. In all truth, though, I think he is beginning to wonder why every time he walks in the room either a screen is being swiftly minimized or a large object dropped to draw his attention from my monitor. What thrills me even more about work is my misuse of its basic principle and purpose: to get paid. In the wise words of Homer Simpson, "Money can exchanged for goods and services." And boy, is that true. We're not just talking about food and dry cleaning here, either. Money seems to be the only surefire way to get your best friend to run naked down the street or convince a TA to overlook the fact that your paper was written on gum wrappers. College may be the only time in our lives when rent and food are being paid for by someone else, so why not waste the surplus funds on making some frat guy eat 54 hot dogs in one sitting? This goes double in the summer months (for those lucky enough to live on or near campus), when even the holy words "but I have to study..." can't justify a damn thing. Rationalizing my hours of work is probably the only motivation for going there in the morning. I wake up at 7 a.m. with a throbbing hangover and my body immediately sends the message to my brain: "Sick. No work. Need puke." However, my brain, slick Rick that it is, rebuts with: "8 hours work equals $80 bar tab at Miyagi's," and suddenly I find myself in the shower. This alcohol-work relationship also applies to binge drinking. My roommate gets home from work an hour later than I do, usually to the scene of me on our couch surrounded by no less than three empty beer bottles. Before she says a word, I hit her with a "Hard day at work." These four little words melt the cold stare into a warm grin of understanding and an hour later we're three rounds deep into a game of beer pong. Working 9 to 5, what a way to make a living. |
 |
 |
| Is this page more pebbles... |
| Or more Bam-Bam? |
 |
 |