(moved from previous blog)
This summer, instead of getting a part-time job, I decided to tap into the lucrative business of lawn mowing. Unfortunately, my neighbors do not appreciate my landscaping expertise, nor do they trust my hoopty lawn mower. I will admit that I have not always been a fan of my POS push-mower. My dad traded our ping pong table for it one summer, and while at the time I couldn’t understand why he’d do such a thing, I can now see his reasoning behind the exchange; my 21st birthday was still years away, but at the tender age of 12, I was slowly acquiring the chiseled arm and undeniable stroke of a fratastic beer pong champion.
So, since no one in the neighborhood will let me mow, I’m stuck cutting my parent’s grass. However, since I’ve graduated college and moved back into the upstairs office that is now my room, they’ve decided to dub all landscaping activities as my “rent.”
So here I am, living amongst file cabinets and ethernet cords, back to square one: broke.