Welcome to my funeral! I've been DYING to have you pay your loving tribute to me! Bweeeheeheeheehee!!!Welcome to the third and final installment of the "Help me! I am now an adult!" Trilogy. If you've been following this epic tale of temping, grad school, and my personal experience with gender reassignment, then de-assignment surgery, (article yet to be written due to lack of interest) then you probably know I have crafted a veritable Star Wars of being white, 20-something, and completely unemployable. If all goes as planned, this article will be read at my upcoming funeral, so at this point I would like to ask the presiding pastor to wink at my casket right now. (If that didn't get a laugh, please keep doing it until someone asks you politely to stop.) And tell those chatterboxes in the back to clam up-I saw to it that there would be name-brand soda at my wake; the least they can do is show some respect as an old man reads a piece of paper in front of my rotting corpse.
Of course, it didn't have to be this way. I write this in the present hoping to prevent my untimely death, but as Sandra Bullock continues to make romantic comedies without any intervention by modern society, I realize that hope and mercy have vacated this miserable planet like so many dead Russian cosmodogs. Frankly, all of the blame can be placed on you. (Please signal for the ushers to throw lit firecrackers into the audience.)
For months, I have been trying to find a job; and for months, the outside world has been shrugging me away despite the fact that comedy writing can be applied practically to nearly every profession known to man, aside from the ones that are respected and valued. And while my terminal unemployment continues, the money I've hoarded is vanishing as I consume the video games my people so desperately need to survive. I'll admit my skill set is somewhat niche, but do I deserve to die from exposure in an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, wearing nothing but a soiled bedsheet? I assume this is what will happen because my yearbook clearly states that I'm "Most Likely to Die From Exposure in an Abandoned Parking Lot Wearing Nothing but a Soiled Bedsheet." High school was difficult for me.
So, as I still live and breathe, I make this last attempt to sell myself to potential employers. And if I'm currently deceased, please enjoy the following ironically, which I assume has become quite popular in the time since I originally wrote this. But know that I will haunt you forever! (Signal for ushers to throw more firecrackers.) Coffee and Danish will be served in the lobby following this presentation.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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