SICK of your colleagues? Find your friends TIRESOME and PEDANTIC? FED UP with the perpetual same-old same-old carousel of life?
Yes?
TAKE THE BUS!
By jumping on public transport instead of motoring yourself around in your battered Oldsmobile, you will:
- Meet new people!
- Bolster your immune system!
- Improve your energy levels!
- See more stuff!
- Learn new things!
Does your day look like this?
Troubled sleep – shower to shake the mind-shit from your brain – Smarm FM radio in the car – snarly boss – loathsome colleagues – brown bag lunch – afternoon peppered with ennui – slow, solitary drive home – TV dinner – repeat ad nauseum …
Yes?
Then take IMMEDIATE ACTION!
Starting tomorrow, leave the car at home, and jump on public transport. Whether it’s the bus, tram, train or subway, the rules still apply!
You’ll see benefits immediately! But don’t take my word for it, read these testimonials:
“Before taking the bus, I used to be afraid of poor people. Now, I realise that they’re just like me (but without the Jimmy Choos).”
- Amanda Dell’Agincourt
“I used to drive into work every day. The commute, even in good traffic, was an hour and a half. It was taking its toll on my physical health. I was growing a gut and my hemorrhoids were agony. Now, I get the train. It takes half the time and, because I can never get a seat, my leg muscles are stronger and my piles have disappeared.”
- Harvey Lump
“This time last year I was lonely. I lived alone, worked in an office alone, and drove to work alone. My best friend was the dude at the video shop. One morning my car broke down and I was forced to take the bus. I tripped as the bus pulled away from traffic lights, and fell into Sean’s lap. We’ve been living together for six months and now I’m now pregnant with twins.”
- Natasha Duff
“I used to be frustrated that I couldn’t see over my neighbour’s fences from my low-slung Chevy Citation. Now I take the bus, and I can see straight into my neighbour’s windows. It’s great!
- P. Tom
Join a tribe of people just like you! Take the bus today and turn your life around!
You’ll be able to:
- Read more!
- Safely send text messages to loved ones!
- Shut your eyes!
- Get drunk in the afternoon and not worry about having to drive home!
What’s YOUR favorite thing about public transport? Leave your answers below.
Hey hot property!
Look. At. You.
Eight years at med school. A specialization in neuro-proctology, four years of training and NOW YOU ARE THE MAN.
or the woman
You studied hard, young buck, like your mother taught you. You didn’t NEED the spankings and the wallopings and the threats of “making nothing of your life” because you were DRIVEN.
You sweated over homework assignments and you gave up climbing trees with Stacey in order to get your dissertation on the common-or-garden-vole in to the teacher on time. You got a gold star and a smiley face EVERY WEEK.
And in time you graduated, and you qualified, and you passed your nine month induction period. Then you toiled, brown-nosed and impressed enough to make partner. And now you are. And you drive a Beemer.
The family holiday in the Bahamas, and you get to see them at weekends.
Phew.
***
Or maybe this wasn’t you.
Maybe you didn’t find it easy. Maybe you found it really, really tough. Tough to concentrate, tough to learn, tough to perform. It’s not that you didn’t want to do well, it just didn’t come naturally.
So you resigned yourself to not making partner, to not being a doctor, to doing WHAT YOU KNEW YOU WERE CAPABLE of.
And so every day you go to work. It doesn’t turn you on, tweak your nipples or goose you unexpectedly in the night. It doesn’t light up your day, and it doesn’t light up your eyes.
BUT it’s not SO BAD.
In exchange for eight hours debeaking chickens, ladling gravy, mowing lawns or shining shoes, you get WHAT’S IMPORTANT:
Evenings with your family, and food in your kids’ mouths.
Phew.
***
And then this happens:
- Some French dude in a German bank does something he shouldn’t and your customers stop spending money. You never even met this guy, but apparently you have to go.
- The Texan guy with the cigar you only ever see in the parking lot sells something to a minor Saudi royal. Infuriatingly, this means you’re no longer needed.
- Your boss elopes with Sharon from audit. He’s replaced by Jeremy. Jeremy doesn’t like you. You have to go.
- Some fat guy spends all your pension fund and falls off a boat. You have to go.
- For any number of reasons, all beyond your control, and many beyond your understanding, you have to go.
***
So you’re out of a job. And it’s somebody else’s fault.
OR
(…)
You work for yourself.
So you’ll never be out of a job.
Sure, you might be short of clients, or struggle financially, eat spaghetti hoops for a year or any number of things. But you won’t blame somebody else.
(OK, so I’m still looking for the solution to stop your savings being wiped out when your Icelandic bank goes under, but I haven’t got an answer for fucking everything.)
***
So amigo, your homework:
Dear Bachelor:
Your place looks like shit.
But who cares, right? You rock. And besides, you’re never home. You’re out shinning up the corporate ladder, slugging scotch with your boss and rocking Dior Homme. Who cares that you can’t find the lightbulbs?
And when you’re knocking about in the yard, revving your chainsaw and swigging beers with your just-scuffed-enough Timberlands, clean sheets are just an afterthought.
There’s a pretty cool installation of empty bottles and pizza boxes in your sitting room, a burn mark where your rug used to be, and an array of fungal flora in the bathroom.
YUK.
Frankly, amigo, your place sucks.
You say:
“I’m just not good with that stuff, and I don’t know where to start. I spend all my money on video games and Coors Light and anyway, IT’S JUST NOT IMPORTANT.”
But really:
If you ever want to get laid, it IS important.
So, singletons, here’s how to get yo’ shit together and get your place looking ready to entertain.
If you’ve got eight minutes, you’ve got the makings of a presentable space:
- Pick up your fucking socks.
- If the towel is wet, it does not belong on the floor.
- If it’s empty, it does not belong in the refrigerator.
- If it no longer holds edible food, it belongs in the trash.
- It it’s burned out, it needs changing.
- If it’s wrinkled, it needs ironing.
- If it’s broken and you can eat from it, wear it, sit on it, cook with it, or otherwise do something useful with it, fix it. For crying out loud. Don’t make me call your mother.
But if you’ve already got that hygiene thing down, you need to broaden your view:
- Paint your walls. You don’t have to choose aqua-magento or lime-canary. You don’t even need something your landlord would approve, but ceiling doofs and green tape? That’s a no.
- Re-arrange your furniture. You don’t need to hide your movie collection or move your triple-ply eighty inch plasma to the spare room. But give your friends somewhere to sit. The floor is not an option.
- Buy some draperies. Cheap ones are fine, but hide those god-awful slate blinds you keep forgetting to dust. Your house isn’t a jail. Don’t make it look like one.
- Most importantly, if you have stuff you haven’t looked at in a month, used in three, or even touched in twelve, get rid of it. This isn’t rocket science. Get rid of your crap.
BOSH! SUPER BINGO! New looking place, new life, new opportunity.
You’re smart and creative and capable. And you deserve a kick-ass space. So give it to yourself.
This was written by Erica Swanson. She says:
“I’m an interior Designer. Which is a fancy-pants way of saying I create kick-ass spaces for wickedly cool people. I listen. I translate. I initiate. And then I deliver you You.
I do that with my Design on the Dirty virtual services. I help you get what’s in your head, into your space, all at a fraction of the cost of working with a designer in the traditional way. It’s kind of like having your cake and eating it too. Naughty, yes? Because it isn’t about trends or this year’s hottest paint colour or what the Jones’ are doing. It’s about you. And it’s about time.
Oh, and I don’t just hear music, I See Music. Which means I’m not your mother’s designer. Not by a long shot.
Also, if you don’t understand anything I’ve said here, please don’t call me. There is no hope for you.
