I'm taking a break from the emotional garbage to break into why I've got the strangest luck of anyone I know. This morning, I was off to be a good girl and you know, get my slacker ass working by heading to my interview at a temp agency. I was looking all spiffy though, damn, 9am looks like hell on me. I get to the place and I go through my "yeah, I'm looking for publishing and PR, but mostly whatever" shpiel and all is going well. The lady throws something out about a contract job for a month starting tomorrow and I'm all "that sounds great." (Jumping up and down on the inside, natch) But, then she's all "what are you up to for the rest of the afternoon?" I say "nothing," because what is there really but soaps and the net at home with the cats in my sweats on a weekday? She sends me off to go work at Gawker's favorite publishing corporation, where I basically delivered crap and rode around in the company car. Totally sweet. And I even saw that supposed Prada wearing devil herself with her death-ray eyes. I don't think magazine work is for me really. Every boss seems to be a "I wanted it done like an hour ago" high strung type and the chicks are all strutting around in some serious (yet gorgeous) stillettos. But, I like the fashion business casual thing. I could rock that. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow, maybe not. 'Twas interesting. And I even made a friend that reminded me of someone I know (school folks: think our favorite Wes party starter boy). But personally, the best part was the making money. I hope they keep calling me with shit to do because next Thursday is the "Candice has officially let go of school and gotten on with her life" get-together, funded by yours truly after her shopping spree buying a new burner for Helga. My poor baby can't deal.