The Worst Job in the World

I hate my job.

Every Sunday afternoon,

Instead of taking my Sunday afternoon nap,

I am charged with the care and keeping of

Eight crazies.

I get paid to make sure they put their shoes on the right feet

And try two bites of all their food

And brush their teeth before they go to bed

And participate in activities that I don’t always even like.

I have to keep them out of harm’s way

Until Saturday,

When whoever takes care of them comes and takes them home.

No one told me this is how it would be.

I was not adequately warned of the dangers of this job.

When I interviewed,

Thomas Martin did not tell me:

“Be careful. You will fall in love.”

Actually, maybe he did. But he should have forced me to listen.

When I interviewed,

We went through theoretical scenarios

And talked about why I wanted this job.

And I really wanted it.

And now here I am.

Three years later.

Every Sunday,

The most beautiful

Happy

Pure

Joyful

Souls are placed in to my care.

It’s my job to make sure they go back home

Better than they were when they were given to me.

I am put in a position where I

Can’t

Not fall in love.

I am put in a position where I

Cry

Every time a car containing the heart of one I love

Drives in the direction away from me.

And then I’m left with all of these others,

Who are just like me,

But who understand

And we hold each other

While we

Cry.

And then it’s time to get ready for more

Love and

Friendship and

Songs about little green frogs and

Trying new things and

Outpouring of emotions and

No sleep.

And we will die empty.

I love my job.

Love, 

Lauralicious