Greetings from WallyWorld Country

   Speaking of Mom’s dog (so cute! SO CUTE!), I found some of the dog’s leftover pain medication from when she had surgery.  It seems to be the same sort of synthetic morphine humans take (Drug Monkey!  Where are you now?).  Now, my Sponsor wouldn’t approve of this, but…do you think that this stuff is safe to eat?  

       Or is eating your dog’s leftover codeine some disgusting, degenerate junkie behavior?  

       I guess I could ask the Surgeon, but he’d probably tell me to airmail it to him.  Kidding!  Kidding!

      I’ll leave it in the medicine cabinet.  If the dog ever got sick and needed pain relief and didn’t have any because it ate it while watching Jeopardy!, I’d feel like a complete scumbag.  

       Bad news and good news: bad news is that I have to go home to NYC a day early and it’s making my Mom sad.  

       Good news is that I have to go home early cause I got a job interview!

        A normal job, too!  A job that would utilize the knowledge, skills, and abilities I cultivated in many years of college!

       I’m being sarcastic, of course.  My secret job utilizes many of these talents, also.  Grad students and untenured academics are the lowest of masochistic slaves.  The Dean of my last program is a sadistic control freak who might actually be the only man I’ve ever met who is a bigger egomaniac than the Surgeon.  I’m not kidding. 

       It’s for a teaching job.  The pro who was supposed to teach the class next semester quit all at once, and they need to fill the position ASAP.  Margo to the rescue!  If I do the math, I think that it pays approx. $0.72/hour.  (Says the Mathematician: Don’t depress yourself and do the math!  I used to be an adjunct!  Don’t do the math!)

      Even if the wage is crap, I’ll do it if I get the job.  The tutoring job that I have now pays well, and if I do just two or three independent secret job sessions a week–which I could do in a day now!–I’ll be comfortable.  Heck, I could save the secret job stuff for the weekend, and devote my weekdays to living…like a fulltime professional academic. 

       I could have a normal life.  Modest, but normal.  Scheduled.  No more rushing from school to the Surgeon to the insanity at the Superstudio to AA, lying every stop of the way.  I mean, I’d still have to lie…but just a little.  

       I could have a man in my life.  Not the Surgeon or these party animals like Mr. Wolf (bless his heart) who jump out of planes for recreation.  A normal man, for a normal life.  Or as normal as I think I could possibly get anytime in the immediate future.  

       Which brings us to… 

       The Mathematician sent me an email with pictures of his dog and his huuuuugeass Christmas tree.  I am not exaggerating–it really is a hugeass Christmas tree.  Where do you get a tree this big? Is it a fucking redwood?  How did he get it in the door?  How do you get the star on top of it?   

       I turned my computer around towards my mother so that she could take a look at the screen.  

       “Awww!  He’s a very nice-looking man!  And what is that big bird doing out of its cage?” asked Mom.

        “The bird is his friend!” I explained.  

         Maybe I could be his friend…?

         Okay, enough heavy stuff.  Want a peep inside life in the redneck state of my birth?  My homeland, where part of my soul will always hail?

        Today, I went with my Mom and my brother to WalMart.  It was not my idea.  Mom wanted to buy a big light-up Snowman decoration for the front lawn–it was 70% off on the after-holiday sale.  My brother needed ammo.  Lots of ammo.  

       They sell ammo in KMarts here.  

        Anyway, I know that some of my New York readers may have never been inside of a WalMart.  I find them bizarre and unlikable for a number of different reasons.  One reason is that they are HUGE.

       No exaggeration.  HUGE.  

       WalMarts are so big inside that even though you can see the ceiling and it’s climate-controlled and artificially lighted, you feel like you’re outdoors.  Or at least I do.  Yeah.  I feel outdoors.  

        The only thing remotely comparable that I’ve ever experienced is an indoor football stadium.  

“Does this place have an echo?”  Why yes, yes it goes.  And a pharmacy, a nail salon, a hair salon, a McDonald’s, and a plant nursery.  And an optometrist.  Jesus Christ.  

     This fish display in the pet section just about killed me.  For fish, this truly must be hell on earth.  Well, I told myself, you can’t save them all! 

Fish Hell: “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.”
      My camera could not adequately capture the horror of this image: a huuuuuge long table with acres and acres and acres of inferior, diabetes-provoking pastry.  It boggles my mind.  Full disclosure: I love those cheapass sweet sugar cookies with the soft icing on the top.  Or at least I did. Those ones in the very front.  I think I last had one in 2008.  So sad.  

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