I think I've caught fleas

How does one get flead? Is that even the proper term?

I woke up this morning, put my feet on the carpet (my arse still on the bed) and phoned some job interviewer who, needless to say, was about to turn me down...
And I looked down and lots of little black beasties were crawling over my ankles!

Maybe I would have gotten the job if I hadn't screamed: "HOLY FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!!!???" But as things went, I did shout that and didn't get the job (who wants to train as a bunion specialist anyways?).

I tried brushing them aside, but they jumped away at incredible speed. Fleas! In my bedroom!
This can't be good.

I've travelled around Indian slums, across rivers of mud and up through jungles of horrors and never, NEVER, have I been savaged by little black beasties before.
I'm sitting in the library typing away, and I swear to God I feel little creatures crawling over me and biting me.
Now, it may be just my imagination here, but so what? If I mentally believe I'm carrying the critters around on me, that's surely just as bad as actually having them on me!

Now I'm going to have to spend even more hard earned cash (well... cash anyways, I don't actually know who earned it, but it sure as fuck wasn't me) combatting an infestation!
And weren't fleas responsible for the Black Plague? Holy Hell! I swear to God I'm going to die in this job-forsaken country.

Talking about jobs (a subject which, much like fleas and diarrohea, hangs around me with an ever-present stench of foulness, defeat and self-pity), I got turned down as a parking attendant today. I wasn't qualified enough! How fucking ironic is that then?
"So," asks I, "What qualifications do you need to become a parking attendant then?"
"Well," answers she, "You need to be able to park cars professionally and talk to customers."

Yeah. Well that REALLY fucking rules me out then, doesn't it!
Holy hell, I am being bitten, I swear to the great horned one!

Yeah, so, yeah. Well it's just as well the interview was over the phone, because I would have dragged the stupid bitch over the desk and smacked her silly with my sandal.

Losing the plot? Me? Na. Never.
I'm contemplating trying to get a job at the McDonalds. The obvious problem is that if they turn me down, then my life really is worth less than the vitamins in a big Mac.
Good grief.
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

One of the jobs I've applied to is for a big warehouse-like-store-chain, much along the lines of Ikea. The actual job I've applied for is called: "Financial control expert", which basically means that I work the till. Oh the joy of it all.
This coming Thursday there's a three hour assessment...
Let me repeat that, just in case you thought I wrote something else: A 3 hour assessment!
Three hours I'll be grilled like an Al Qaeda suspect, questioned like a Scientology target and bossed around like an unemployed bum.
Three God damned hours, just to see if I'm capable of scanning a product, smiling and asking: "Will that be all then?"
And get this. They want you to dress smart for this arsessment.
"What," asked I, "do you mean by smart?"
"Well," answered she, "we mean shirt, tie and trousers."

And that really rules me fucking out doesn't it? I DON'T WEAR TROUSERS!
No. I mean, I don't wear ties. I don't do ties!
There's not a tendon in my body, not a ligament in a limb and certainly not a sinew in... what the fuck is sinew anyways? I've never even heard of the bloody word!
Anyhow... there's not a bone in my body that even contemplates putting a string around my own neck. Hell no. I'm not gonna walk around like some bitter fruit that's pulling a Triffid-esque dance of death. Or whatever... see if I care...

And what's the point of dressing smart when fleas are bungy jumping off you?
See what I'm up against? See?

God damn it.