Today at work, Todd strolled over and said that he decided I remind him of Mother Teresa. I LIKE WHERE THIS IS GOING, I thought to myself, as I swiveled in my seat to give Todd my full, undivided attention.
He name-dropped M.Teresa several more times, basically insinuating that I might even be BETTER than her, what with how I’m changing the world, one postcard at a time. My head was inflating to Trump dimensions.
Turns out Todd was just trying to get Amber2 riled up, who was standing near my desk but not paying attention, so he eventually had to resort to saying, “RIGHT AMBER?”
Once she was looped in, and after adequate eye-rolling, she asked, “And what would you even be the saint of? Brookline?”
GOOD QUESTION! I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, which was something about clowns, but it didn’t originally make sense because nothing I say anymore makes any sense and I suck at everything that requires using any portion of my brain, which turns out is basically everything.
Since then, I have settled on Clown Town. Saint Erin of Clown Town. I am the tart that all the clowns will pray to when they can’t find their red noses or get a pie thrown in their face, maliciously as opposed to comically.
Honestly though, I AM PERFECT FOR THIS JOB.
Todd picked up my employee badge thing and deemed that this will be the picture of me that appears on grilled cheeses, potato chips, and prayer cards:
I was so excited to be a saint, but then a little while later, dumb Glenn mumbled that PRINCE HAD DIED and now I don’t care about being a saint anymore because Prince is dead.