You got a job. Congratulations. Don't tell me about it.

I've reached a new point in my life. Now, when someone tells me they got a job, I freak out, and have a panic attack. At that point, the person with the job says, "Don't worry! You'll get one soon!" Know what? Fuck you for saying that.

Are you employing me? No. It just sounds patronizing from you now. I know you're trying to help, or to make me feel better, but shut the fuck up. Congratulations, go get drunk, knowing that you'll be able to pay for it after the bar. I'm going to sit here, blindly sending out letters, and wondering why I actually studied in law school. Everyone with jobs didn't. It all goes to show you, that some people are just born lucky, and some people aren't. I wasn't. Yeah, great, I got good grades. That's certainly done a lot for me, when I'm probably in a worse position than the person at the bottom of the class who probably has a job.

I don't want to hear about your job, I don't want to hear about your joy. I'm past the point of being able to be happy for you. Sorry if that's selfish, and sorry if that's "rude." (It's not.) All I want is for one of these thousands of interviews I go on to work out. When you get a job, don't tell me about it. I don't want to know what you'll be doing, because honestly, I don't give a shit. I want to know what I'll be doing, and at this point, I'll be sitting on a couch, eating Cheetos, and waiting for the electricity to get cut off.

When you tell me you got a job offer, it actually manifests itself physically in my body. I blanch, start sweating, and then feel that familiar burn of acid reflux. Hearing your good news actually just killed me a little bit, so do me a favor - don't tell me.

I've found my new career.

I am going to be a jet ski driver. That is all I am going to do. I am going to drive jet skis around Key West for the rest of my life.

With the money I make as a professional jet ski driver, I will purchase myself a nice, shiny, dark blue BMW. I don't know exactly which one, quite yet.

With my money that I make as a professional jet ski driver, I will also purchase myself the large haunted-looking house with a widow's walk on Southard Street and...something else street. (That's of course, if I don't purchase the ENORMOUS, INCREDIBLE house on Southard and half-up the block from Simington...if I can lay my greasy little paws on that one, it's mine, I figure I can probably pick it up for a cool 2 million.)

I will rip out the chain link fence, put up a high picket fence, and do a lot of planting around the sides of the house. Mainly succulents that grow quickly - large rubber plants. I will also plant a large banyan tree in the corner, and a mangrove tree. I may or may not add a lemon tree, some bougainvilla, and a mango tree. I will surround my property with greens. I will completely renovate the house, gutting the haunted-looking interior, and making it open and well-appointed. Lots of dark wood and leather chairs and polished brass, but still comfy - canvas throw pillows and ottomans. Perhaps a large, angled oriental rug. A globe. Nautical thingies. I'll make the kitchen a vision in stainless steel and granite. I'll have a 6-burner Viking stove with restaurant-strength burners, a grill-top and a sub-zero refrigerator. The bane of my existence, that Kitchen Aid mixer will get to sit on the counter. I will have glass-fronted cabinets. They will probably get dusty, and will be lit by halogen lights. I will also have a bowl-shaped sink -- no, two sinks, one bowl shaped on my island with my Viking range, and the other, a larger utility sink next to my Viking convection-ovens set in the wall.

The windows will be wavy, and have whorls and eddies, either caused by time, or 1870s glass technology.

I will paint the outside of the house white again, after scraping off all the depressing lead-based paint that's on there now. I will have all of the window and door shutters restored, and stained a medium-gloss-matte rosewood brown. I will paint the undersides of the balconies and eaves seafoam blue - high gloss. This will reflect onto the house, making it look fantastic for those that make it past my picket fence and that can actually see my house.

I will install a small lap-pool in the yard, positioned so I actually get some sun. It will get dirty, but I will hire someone to skim out all of the dead flowers that will drop into my pool.

There will be wind chimes. And and a cat and a dog.

The house will no longer look like a sagging haunted mess. I will have floors shorn up, and the electrical and plumbing system replaced. I will steam years of wallpaper and paint off the walls and install crown moldings, and scuff-board on the lower walls - this will probably also be a dark teak color.

A plasma television will hang over the fireplace. I will stare out of the widow's walk when I am bored at the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, and at the cruise ships docking at the port near Mallory square.

Then, I will go to work. I will just jet ski around the island. People will pay me to do this. If I don't feel like jet skiing, I won't. But usually I will. I will make tons of money jet skiing, and then, when the day is done, I will go and transact my business with the rest of the crazy locals. I'll know the drunk old lady that kept losing her glasses and tripping over dogs. I'll know all the cast of characters on Key West. I won't be a lawyer, that's for damn sure. I'll do things on my own schedule, and keep busy puttering around with things. I will be relaxed and low key. It is going to be fantastic. I can't wait until I start my job as a rich house-repairing jet skier.