slump.

I love the holidays. The crisp bite of the winter air! The proliferation of free candy on people’s desks! The sweet sound of seasonal tunes over the grocery store PA system!

And, of course, the general business slow-down which, last week, led my manager to say, “We don’t have much work coming in, so we’re reducing your hours to 3 days a week for the next couple months”… !

Okay, maybe not that last one.

On the one hand, four-day weekends are nothing to sniff at. I lurve me some four-day weekends.

On the other hand, though, the reduction of my paycheck by 25% has knocked me down to a level of poverty that vaguely resembles my financial conditions circa age 21 (when the only apartment I could afford was bordered on two sides by a couple of penis-exposing pervs).

After doing some simple math, (7 – 3 = 4), I’m unnerved to realize that the Days That I Work are now outnumbered by the Days That I Do Not Work. Which makes me feel like I ought to get a second, “but look how hard I’m trying!” job – you know, the ones that are usually reserved for ex-cons (see Morgan Freeman as a supermarket checkout boy in the Shawshank Redemption) or retired-but-still-sprightly seniors who enjoy the feeling of being “useful”. (See legions of grandparent-aged WalMart Greeters, employed exclusively to welcome the waddling, mega-store masses to their temple of eternal consumerism. No wonder suicide rates among the elderly are on the rise.)

I should have been a banker. Or maybe a prostitute.

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P.S. Not that you owe me any favors, dear readers – the pleasure of your company is all I’ve ever wanted – but if, by any chance, you’re looking for a writer, don’t be shy about emailing me.