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What the fuck happened to my summers?
Summer for a college student is a far cry from those magical months I
remember as a kid. If you were white and rich, the way God intended the world to
be, childhood summer conjures up images of boating trips and barbeques
(seriously, everything I know about white people is from J. Crew ads). If you
were black, it meant
wrenching the top off of the nearby fire hydrant and race riots. If you were
Asian like me, it meant summer school and avoiding the outdoors. Sure this was
pretty much like the rest of my year, but the heat slowed down my parents so I
didn’t get beaten nearly as often. Plus, popsicles!
So what happened to those perfect three months that I remember? What happened
to the delicious iced treats and infrequent thrashings? Just recently I got back
home, worn out from eight months of irresponsible drinking, unprotected sex, and
bouts of intravenous drug abuse, and I’m not greeted with pool parties and Slip
’n Slides the way TV said it’d be like. Instead, I’m expected to jump right into
the real world… and not the fun MTV-sponsored kind either. Summer for a college
student now means a job, and a job means work, and work means force times
distance. Instead of the irresponsible drinking, unprotected sex, and drug abuse
I expected to continue in a slightly different setting with slightly different
people, I get old newspapers with circled ads. I get craiglist.org, monster.com,
and analintruders.gov. I get crabs.
I still get hit, so I guess things aren’t that different.
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Modern day punishment: getting drunk on weekends, passing
out, then waking up and serving the same table you ate at
the night before. |
The summer job search is the most unrealistic part of real life there is.
Like the common retarded person, you’re slowly being taught the most basic of
skills in order to function in society—things like not smearing your shit on the
walls or chasing people around with your dick (some never do learn the latter).
Anyone from the local bumfuck community college to Harvard has difficulty
finding a summer job because your credentials are worth less than the careers of
most PIC writers or a those with a communications degree. It doesn’t matter
where you go to school, or what extracurricular activities you’ve been a part
of. It doesn’t even have anything to do with your ability to suck a golf ball
through a garden hose, as I can testify to. When the illegal immigrant living in
the van parked at the end of your street has an easier time getting a job than
you do, it really makes you wonder. Sure, Jose might be getting paid $2.95 an
hour, but that’s almost three dollars more than you’re making.
It’s injustice, plain and simple. Look, I’ve just spent $50,000 of my
parent’s money playing a
yearlong game of hide-the-sausage and Guess Which Drink Gave You Alcohol
Poisoning? (Hasbro™) and I’m fucking tired. I just want to sleep for three weeks
straight and then wake up, masturbate in the privacy of my own room, and then go
right back at it. Who are you to tell me to move my lazy ass off the couch?
Well, Dad? Well, Mom? And after your parents kick you out of the house you have
to get a job. It’s inevitable. And after you find out you’re not good-looking
enough to sleep with women or men for money you have to get a legitimate job.
How? When whoring yourself out doesn’t work, what hope do the rest of us have?
Like a lot of problems, including why you can’t find anyone to have sex with
you, the solution lies in lowering your standards. Sure you might be going to
college, but half of a degree is like a cheap boob job: it might look good from
far away, but you really should have dropped that extra two grand to have the
surgeon finish the right breast too. Don’t expect to be automatically accepted
by anybody, even those you consider beneath you. Don’t think, “Grocery store
bagger? Fuck that.” Your attitude should be, “Grocery store bagger? Please?”
You’re nineteen and in college. How unique do you think you are? Do you
really think you’re the only one with an almost-degree and a pretty face? People
like me are in the market and we are fucking ruthless. I’ve killed a man over
the possibility that he would apply to the same job that I did. In all
seriousness, I’m wanted by the law. But I’ve got the job, and whatever, he was
dead way before I got there. Way, way before the cops found me choking the life
out of him with my bare hands. And definitely way,
way before the sodomy.
The last thing you can do is so simple it shouldn’t even really count as a
tip. But I’ve got twenty more words to reach an 800-word requirement so shut the
fuck up and sit down. Who am I kidding; you’re sitting anyway you lazy,
unemployed bastard. Like when I say, “I love you, too,” so she’ll finish the
blowjob, or when I tell my parents the loud vomiting they heard at 5 in the
morning was due to bad Taco Bell, I’m lying. And so should you.
Do you have any experience in retail? Of course… I do tons of shopping. Have
you ever coded in JAVA? Absolutely… not. It’s easy, universally accepted, and
when the entire company comes crashing to the ground around your ears because of
your fictional ability to write computer code well, you’ll be back at college,
safe with your English major, alcohol, and legal name-change (they might be a
little pissed at you). But come on, you’ve really just been waiting your whole
life for an excuse to change your name to Optimus Prime.
And of course, I’m not lying when I say I
didn’t steal that joke from Dane Cook.
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