Complaining; filler.

When I was between the ages of 22 and 24, I had a social calendar so full that I didn’t know what to do with myself. I would leave for work at 8am, go out straight afterward, and eventually stumble home at 2am – at which point I would fall into bed for six hours before getting up to do the whole thing over again.

This insanity (although it seemed like good fun at the time) was the result of the often-recommended-but-ultimately-exhausting practice of accepting every social invitation I received. That was my thing – saying “yes” to everything – and it was a great way to make new friends, stay busy, and feel like I was taking advantage of all the city had to offer.

The problem is, at some point along the way, I somehow transplanted this practice from my social life to my work life… which is how I have found myself (figuratively) flailing about like a drowning person in a salty, unforgiving sea of freelance assignments, with no social life to speak of, and no relief in sight.

At least at the moment.

So, in the meantime, please enjoy the following Thing. I will be writing a press kit and wondering how I ended up here.


George W. Bush: Psst… hey, Michael. Michael? MIKE. MIKEY!

Michael Phelps: Yes, Mr. President?

GWB: I am SO HIGH right now!

MP: Oh no.

GWB: Oh YEAH.

MP: Listen, sir, if you just smile and look straight ahead, nobody will susp--

GWB: Ha! Hahahaha! Lookit, I'm holding this flag like a tor…. toree… torea-doodad.

MP: Mr. President, please--

GWB: I think the first lady knows we smoked for freedom. She won't look at me.

MP: That might be because you keep calling her "Sweet Lips" and grabbing her ass, sir.

GWB: Hahahaha!

MP: Sir, they're trying to take our pict—

GWB: Hey, Sweet Lips! NICE TATAS!

MP: Oh, boy. This was a mistake.

GWB: The Bush Administration doesn't make mistakes, son. Now give me another hit off that bong-a-majig.