Make way for a 15-top

I'm officially a starving artist.

After six weeks of lounging around as an unemployed writer, I'll start my new part-timer today waiting tables. At a salsa club.

Fun. Not fun. I can't decide. I'm too damn old to be bringing cold beers and margaritas to college students going out on a Monday night. That's for sure. But thus is my life. Or so it's become.

I can't help but NOT be excited about branching out of my 9-to-5 dream world where I sit in front of a computer, pretend to write and surf MySpace all day. That wasn't exactly ideal either, but the perks were good. I had coffee made for me everyday. Lunch brought to my office. A view. Steady pay. Insurance. And I didn't have to shake my ass for some overweight 20-something trying to get his groove -- and his drunk -- on.

We'll see how it goes, I guess. If I leave tonight smelling like limes and fish tacos, I'm not sure how I'll last. I'm not opposed to hard work, sweaty work, but I've realized recently how spoiled I am in the career department.

A medium margarita? Salt or no salt?

So it goes.