I want to be a drug dealer.
I spend at least two hours of every day searching for writing jobs, office jobs, and outdoor jobs. In this economic climate even hand jobs are in short supply.
But despite all my exploration, resume edits and cover letters, I can’t find an occupation that would lead a female to find me attractive. I am financially stable but neutral to the point of crying tears of boredom. Being a server at a German novelty restaurant can only earn me so much.
I thought about selling oregano to ignorant middle school kids, but I’d exhaust my customer base faster than a door-to-door art salesman. Therefore, I’d need 10-20 kilos of some dank ass fire. In a month, I’d easily score ten thousand tax-free dollars with my business savvy and ‘hood pedigree.
And I wouldn’t go buy any dumb shit either. I’d keep my spending on the low and set up various laundering efforts, most likely hot dog carts positioned outside of closing nightclubs.
Everything will fall to my plans, unlike my competition, whose careless purchase of a three-titted hooker will lead the cops straight to his door. But it wouldn’t matter if my enemy kept his drug money in a Salvation Army bucket, because I’d snitch him out before he could do the same to me. Call me a snake all you want. I’m not eating prison food.
All the cash I’d score would be a constant middle finger to all the bankers and fraud claim adjusters that denied me financial sustenance. Though I wish I could’ve had sex on my insurance supervisor’s desk, I guess I’ll have to settle for slapping a Japanese cosplayer’s rump in a tub full of green jelly.
But would I use the drugs? Hell no. Winners don’t use drugs. But if you believe winning isn’t everything, then I got some shit for you right here.
