Today has lasted longer than several Hollywood marriages combined, I estimate. I am very glad that I have a job, but occasionally one of my co-workers and I lament our inability to get paid for being fabulous. We haven’t gotten the kinks worked out of the business plan yet, but we’re working on it. How is this not possible? I want to be fabulous and be ridiculously compensated for it. That happens to people, right? Right?
OK, so it really doesn’t.
In my dreams, I’m living in some MTV Cribs-esque mansion complete with wave pool and grotto a la the Playboy Mansion with my own personal concert promoter booking the Specials and Linkin Park in my backyard whenever I feel like listening to them. Like a live stereo system, if you will. The bar in the basement is the hottest club in town and the bar upstairs is a mellow place where I can kick back and have martinis with my friends. There’s a brewpub in the kitchen, which happens to be personally chef-ed by someone trained by Greg Higgins. I don’t care who, as long as the food is amazing and the cook is hot.
I have three bedrooms to choose from, two bathrooms, eight living rooms and two playrooms filled with pool tables, ping-pong tables, 80’s-vintage Atari games, pinball games and Foosball tables.
The wave pool in the back is adjustable to what I want to surf that day. The garage contains a Mercedes Gelandewagen, a Porsche Boxster, two Subaru WRX STis, and a Cadillac Escalade.
I have a personal jet and houses in Whistler, New Zealand and an apartment in Milan.
And then I wake up because my alarm just went off and I am going to be late for my real job, the one that pays my rent in my house. And I go stand at the bus stop.
Dammit.
Quote of the Day: Just step back and see/it’s not the way to be/you’ve got to find a place in life.” Place in Life, The Specials.
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