Mysti Rainwater

I GooGLe myself from time to time. As a thing of factly (Babel Fish is my new favorite toy...things are found in translation as often as they are lost)...I GooGLed myself just now and found a woman named Mysti Rainwater. She lives a vibrant life in Arizona. Her life sounds vibrant to me because she has a job I think I would enjoy, a job with purpose and decent pay, a job that is more than a job, a job that is a calling, a service to others. I could not be a nurse. I thought about that once for about two seconds. I am squeamish. I am lazy. I could be a therapist. I could be a psychologist. I've been seeing psychiatrists, counselors, psychologists and therapists (and preachers) since I was nine years old (my hair was falling out and I was mean to my sister for no good reason). What a dream job. You get to sit on your ass and feel sorry for people. I could do that shit all day long without even trying. "Here's a book that might help you on your journey," I would say to a young girl struggling with self-esteem issues because her daddy abandoned her for a hot barmaid in New Orleans and boys didn't feel like kissing her and she didn't get invited to many slumber parties or sock hops. I would hand the young girl a pristine copy of Nova's Gone Potty, Bullshit Rodeo, Arsenal of Spitwads, eBuLLieNT voMiT or Sloppy Mouth.

The thing is I don't have time or money for school. As it is I am in $25K in debt for changing my major six or seven times (I have sixty accredited hours which does not mean s-h-i-t) and attending a private university for two semesters. So I sit on my ass and blog, write poems and novels, read books and drink lemon ice water, dreaming of Fiji and Paris and Rome and Lima and San Francisco. This is not my calling. This is my time killer.