I moved in with a good friend from college, "Brandy," who was working as a nanny and going to grad school to become a couple's counselor. She and I had "bonded" on Spring Break (this means we got drunk and I fucked her). We were raised in adjacent rural farming communities in Upstate New York, and we were the anomalies. My town is famous for barbershop quartet, and Brandy's first boyfriend was ostracized for fucking a cow.

I graduated during the apex of the Internet startup catastrophe, when clients would pay out the ass to get one of those horrible flash intros that everyone skips en route to a website. With all this cash flow in advertising, it was a breeze to find a job. I had my pick of the best agencies in town.

But I was a fucking idiot. I chose a firm, "Creativestink," because one of the partners was smoking hot. I thought taking a job for the future promise of desk-clearing sex was perfectly acceptable, but I didn't do enough research. "Hot Partner" was married to a 300 lb. Succubus with back rolls and atrocious vaginal hygiene. Worse yet, he was faithful to her. This made my life at Creativestink a hell. Incidentally, she is also the impetus behind the "stink" in Creativestink.

This is probably a good time for me to bring up my ADD, dyslexia, fear of telephones, poor communication skills, and depressive episodes. I had a shitty childhood.

My career at Creativestink wasn't going well, and to top it all off, "Hot Partner's" smelly wife had taken a job in the account service department. She was now on site five days a week, spilling out of her size 30 dresses like an over-stuffed carp sausage. I was forced to lunch with her and the rest of the office on Fridays. I've never seen more inventive use of butter.

Things at home weren't much better. Brandy was a sex addict. When she had fucked her way through the NBA and the local military bases she turned her sites on the father of the children she took care of. The wife found out and chased her out of town. Brandy moved to Hawaii, and a few weeks later she married a Mormon guy on a beach. They are now divorced. Next time someone tells you to see a therapist, remember that Brandy is a couple's counselor.

So things weren't going well no matter how much wine I drank. I made large purchases I couldn't afford, like kayaks and road bikes, and that didn't work either. I was baffled. It was during this period of general unhappiness that I was contacted by a neurotic man named Bob [name removed]. He owned an NFL marketing agency in Baltimore and wanted to hire me as his creative director. This meant Bob was retarded.

1) I am afraid of telephones.
2) I can't read without getting a migrane.
3) I am bad at math.

I think one must conclude that I cannot manage millions of dollars of advertising. But I liked lots of money in my paycheck, so I relocated to Baltimore.

I moved in with a friend of my sister's. She was a Schoolteacher with severe Borderline Personality Disorder and a heroin habit, and she spent her spare time manipulating her boyfriend into loving her. This was probably why she was never home. I had to take care of her gargantuan Retriever, a dog that had been forced to lay in a tiny crate in its own piss and shit 23 hours a day. He had behavioral problems.

I started working at Bob [name removed]'s agency. It was located in a crumbling brownstone on the side of town in which HBO films the crustiest "Wire" scenes. Everyone in advertising referred to it as "The [name removed] Crackhouse." Bob was five feet tall with no hair, a speed habit, and a talent for making people want to kill themselves. He sexually harassed his female account reps (Example: I learned within two weeks of working there that his mistress had broken his dick while fucking him. He offered this piece of info quite casually, to my abject horror).

I worked long hours at the Crackhouse. You can imagine my ADD, dyslexia, fear of telephones, poor communication skills, and depressive episodes made it difficult to get anything done.

One night, I was attacked by a crackhead on the way to my car. Bob told me to keep it "under wraps" because the women wouldn't work late if they knew there were crackheads looming outside "The [name removed] Crackhouse."

I started making up reasons to go on extended business trips to Bob's satellite office (a rat infested shed) in Tampa, FL. It was sunnier and there were no crackheads. This escapist strategy worked nicely until I was called back to Baltimore by my lan dlord. Someone had overdosed all over the carpeting in my apartment. I told the landlord that he should have the heroin-addicted tenant do the cleaning up, but he couldn't find her. Scittish creature she was.

To relieve the stress and tension of being back in Baltimore, I decided to knock the dust off my Kayak. I took it into the Inner Harbor and paddled around a bit. It was fun until I paddled into a submerged Dorito bag out of which a human finger popped. I went home and pumiced myself raw, and then I never kayaked again.

With my voice mail nearing 300 unanswered messages, I decided I didn't like people. I also decided I didn't like my career, so I quit.

I'm not sure what to do now. I like power tools. Do carpenters ever have to use the phone? Can women find employment as "boobie lickers?"