I am wearing a suit. I had a job interview this morning. I like wearing this suit so much that I'm considering wearing this suit for most of the day. I look like I could buy and sell you ten times over right now.

I'm not even going to loosen the tie.

So. I dreamt saturday night that Britney Spears was my girlfriend. That my unconscious thinks that Britney and I should be dating is news to me. Let's break this down:

1: I've never, ever fantasized about Britney. Sure, she's hot in that anonymous way superstars are hot these days, but she has never occupied a place in my pantheon of sexual imaginings.

2: I don't really pay any attention to Britney or even know all that much about her. I know that she sings crappy music I don't like. I also know that she'll be a trivial pursuit question or a kitschy artifact of that late 90's and early 00's someday. That's about it.

3: I hate her.

But! In this dream, boy, did we ever have the hots for one another. The most amazing part of it was how quickly my mind accepted it. Of course I was dating Britney Spears. Why not? We liked each other alot, after all!

In the dream, I called my best friend over to where I was standing. I bragged: "Hey, man. I'm dating Britney Spears." He was pretty damn impressed. After that, I gushed: "Man, isn't she great?" And I meant it.

Now I think I really have a chance with her, if I meet her. I mean, like Britney Spears wouldn't want to date me? She'd be a fool. That girl (not yet a woman) would fall for me hardcore. I know it.

Now I fantasize that I teach her a few guitar chords while she lets me consume her lifetime supply of Pepsi. Oh, Britney! My angel!

Speaking of my new girlfriend Britney and other abominations, what the fuck is up with these things? I've seen them proliferate through diaryland lately like skank in a suburban mall:

I think it's fantastic that the image of impossibly cute prepubescent girls, hands clasped non-threateningly behind their backs, heads bowed shyly is what our teen girls aspire to! I wish I could figure out where these things come from. If anyone knows the source of this wellspring of evil, please let me know. I have to go look. It would be like sneaking into the basement of a mad scientist.

Oh, and, lest I forget, I must mention that I was privileged enough to have recieved a visit friday from my lovely 12% Beer Mate Rudey and her friend "The Lizard". My interactions with them were helped by the fact that they're both cute, smart, and funny, and that much beer was consumed. I was especially happy that Rudey let me buy her some fries and a beer for her birthday/Valentine's Day, and that she didn't ask much more of me than that. Perfecto.

During our time together we discussed many things, from the angelic niceness of good ol' Joe, to gossip about the other 12%'ers, to the inner machinations of the brutal Canadian mafia. I believe I can safely say a good time was had by all. I know I had a good time.

Thank God they were cute. And not weird. Oh, and just in case anyone is curious, I can also say with much certainty now that, despite the fact that Ms. Ann-Frank did not join us, she has a wonderfully sexy phone voice and she loves to use it! I was going to put her number up here, so you could call her and let her seduce you for free (she loves it!) but she blocked her number when she called in from an 'undisclosed location.' Wuss.

Oh, and, briefly: The job interview went OK. I found out that I can type 59 words per minute. The guy who interviewed me knew Joan Cusack and Gwen Macasi, and I think he knew the guy whose house I went to for Passover last year. I may have impressed him by intimating that I was down with the Jew Posse. Good practice for Los Angeles.

After that, I used the bathroom, and I saw that the guy who had used the one toilet in there before me had left a poop smear. It was under the water, at the bottom of the toilet. I was worried that my interviewer was going to come in after I used it, see the poop smear, think it was from me, and that it would queer the deal. Thankfully, my flush eradicated any traces of the horrid mess.

Then, I interviewed with the Dept. Manager Who Could Not Smile, and she told me that the AM position had been filled, but that the night position was available. The hours would be 1:30pm to 10pm. I can see myself becoming suicidally depressed by these hours. On the other hand, I'd be working 48 or so hours a week at $13/hour. I need that type of money.

Bloody hell. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. My choices are to beat up teenagers for 20 hours a week at a low paying job, or, not have an evening free (beautiful spring and summer evenings, no less) for the rest of my time in Chicago at a well paid job, or, see if I can find something better in this damnable economy.

What are the benefits like for a Poop Smear Cleaner? I mean, beside the obvious?