Nothing is Ever Perfect
I spend my days in an office. I have no windows and an air conditioning vent that blows out too much cold air. There’s a fridge under my desk and a black couch covered in white dog hair. In the corner of the room is a television attached to a tivo that only plays reality shows.
My job is to watch reality shows. To know every reality show that is on the air, going on the air, or has been on the air. It’s one of those strange jobs that doesn’t really make sense but to a nineteen year old college girl it might be considered a dream job.
And in many ways it is. Except for the five inch cockroach I killed on my floor this morning.
The wall of my office is attached to a bar. It’s one of those shitty little sports bars that’s been in Los Angeles forever. They serve food. None of it is good, but people continue to eat there.
Once every eight months they spray for cockroaches. Those roaches then burrow through the wall and into my office. Once every eight months my office fills with cockroaches.
I hate roaches.
I love my job.
Nothing is ever perfect.
