Edit: I hate Crachel Cray

My mother, who has recently revealed that she reads my blog, would like me to publicly apologize for writing unfavorable (yet truthful!) things about a certain cooking show celebrity.

I won’t offer an apology, but I will concede to creating an alias to anonymize and preserve my tenuous relationship with her—as my mother pointed out, said celebrity does know D’Oprah, and you just never know what bridges you might be burning or building.

So, Crachel Cray, here’s hoping that next time, you’ll do the right thing and butt out of my business.

Speaking of times when it is appropriate to butt in to my business, I had a nice little conversation this morning with Mr. President of Badvertiser. I told him I would be working a couple times a week at Café Gypsy, where we first met. Always a nice guy—which is why I even bothered accepting the job here at Badvertiser—he expressed genuine concern for my well-being. “You know, when you overexert yourself, it starts to affect everything you do and it makes it so that you can’t even do anything anymore.” This, I know. This is how Gainfully Unemployed even began.

He also suggested that if I was working so much for the sake of my finances, I shouldn’t worry—he would buy me dinner if all I could afford was a margarita and chips… shit, I seem to be confusing him with Crachel Cray.

Actually, Mr. President assured me that once I started taking on more responsibility here, that I would be getting a raise accordingly. His point being: I shouldn’t work so much at the expense of my own sanity.

He is right too—I shouldn’t work so much. Which is precisely why I’m about to create a sign that instructs my coworkers here at the Badvertiser office to wash their own damn dishes; unless they’re smeared with frosting, demonstrating that my coworkers are not in fact cupcake-hating freaks, I REFUSE to perform this chore for them.