I just got rejected after the upteenth interview.
I'm just going to pretend that it's Sunday brunch time at the Golden Corral minus the brunch.
Hell, I deserve to wallow in self-pity for a day, don't I?
Tomorrow, it's back to pounding the pavement. Or maybe Wednesday. Well, as soon as I can get another prescription for Vicodin.
To top it off, my last pair of nylons has a run in it and the senile woman next door is sitting on her stoop with her pussy showing.
I'm also running out of Tabasco.
You'd think "Happy Days" never happened. Nobody wants my autograph. Ever.