My father is a highly principled poet who insists that all the genre work he devours is by definition trash because it isn't Literature. I... may have some things to work on. But one thing I envy him is his spectacular entry into the Dumb Jobs Broke Writers Have Had Hall of Fame. The man's been a gravedigger, an eggroll maker, and an organ re-possessor. (Not quite as good as it sounds. He worked for Farfisa.) He's delivered mail and toiled in a steel mill. He's driven a forklift and bottled shampoo.
The tragedy of the Millenial is multifaceted, but among the many more meaningful losses between our parents' generation and ours is the dumb, weird job selection. Barista, receptionist, receptionist, barista. The transition to the service economy and then to the "ha, fuck you" economy is a pretty tedious wasteland.
Wouldn't be surprised if there's better money in gravedigging, either.
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