I’ve begun having paranoid delusions about meeting the people I sell sponges to later in life.
In my fantasies, they’re always wielding some sort of weapon. Most often it’s a rock hard Super Sponge.
“You didn’t tell me they dried rock hard!” they yell as they deal a great quantity of blunt force trauma to my poor exhausted head. This is in sixteen years, and the sponge business is my livelihood. This isn’t the first time this has happened.
You see, it turns out, I just might not be very good at selling sponges. I know, it’s hard to believe. So, from the ripe old age of twenty-three, I made it my only goal in life to sell five thousand dollars worth in one day. I’ve spent every day since trying, and the money really isn’t bad. My Carpal Tunnel is though.
But I’m only thirty-nine now, and pregnant. I’m sure my head can take it.
In other paranoid fantasies, they’re just mad cause they never used the sponges, and it was the waste of twenty-one big ones. Not much, I know. But I bet it matters to some people. I really don’t understand why half the people actually shell out the money.
I really wish I weren’t obsessed with the ethics of my current venture. Tis a hell of a lot of baggage for one just trying to make a buck.