He left a business card, it must be legit.

The US Census Bureau has randomly selected my apartment to include me in an employment survey. Are they hoping I'm unemployed? The lovely field rep, Dan, has stopped by several times last week (during the day. You know, the time most people are at work) and once he even left me a $5 Starbucks gift card. Can't they leave a survey under the door? Why must he talk to me? It seems quite obsessive. He even stopped by Saturday and Sunday but I was away. I'm worried one day he'll really find me at home.

Lemonade 25¢

When I was 10, I worked at my parents' New Jersey grocery store Rosa Maria Food Center (named after my older sister). I worked as the cashier. Yes, I often manned the register on my own while my father was way in the back butchering, or doing whatever it is that butchers do. Cutting meat.

I was in 5th grade, hardly able to reach the Marlboro Lights and Parliaments stacked high on the shelves but I was able to sell them. I managed frequent customer's credits in a rinky dink 3 ring binder (not everyone could pay so my parent's gave customer's a tab allowing them to pay later...a very noble but very foolish gesture on my parents' part.) I bagged, I stocked, I served as loss prevention specialist and did 'busts' during busy after-school times. I did everything but cut the meat.

And this didn't phase most people. Adults treated me as an adult. A little 10 year old adult who could sell them smokes and who knew the characteristics of more odd vegetables than an average American male. I didn't really enjoy it, especially because I couldn't go out and play as much. But I hated it because of the teenagers.

I hated when the high school kids would come in. Yes, I'm ten fucking years old. And yes I work in a fucking grocery store. And of course I love getting fucking made fun of because of it. And remember the whole Give me five, but woah, I'm taking my hand out when you go give me five trick that was so fucking cool. Yeah, they liked to do that. This is when I would bitch to my parents and tell them I was going to call social services because forcing your underage kid to work in a damn grocery store was illegal. And then they would laugh at me finding it cute that I would threaten to call the cops.

I think my past grocery store clerk experience has established the dysfunctional path of all my future employment. Like there's something restless or rebellious in me that refuses to stay at one place too long. Since I had no choice as a child, I'm using my choice wildly and carelessly as an adult. Most people stick at their jobs even if they're unhappy until something 'better' comes along. At the first sign of unhappiness I get out.

Some of my glorious short-lived experience includes dry cleaners - I rubbed chemicals onto the yellowed underarms and necks of men's dress shirts. I lasted one afternoon. Accounting services in college, office assistant for psychologists- I hated the stupid receptionists I worked with so I cut my weekly hours from 20 to 6, computer lab monitor, weed-puller, bulk concert ticket buyer for company that would then sell them at twice the price to hardcore fans, ostrich-poop picker upper and highway garbage cleaner (enforced by the state of Massachusetts), Royal Caribbean cruise checking-in agent, horrendous server at gay steak and burger restaurant, data entry for Gap, Inc., assistant at the national headquarters for some big church establishment where I saw parishoner's kind donations going into extravagant meals and fancy hotels for the religious heads, Donna Karan financing department in which I misspelled Donna Karan in every fax I sent, receptionist at a construction site, marketing assistant at online dating site with asshole boss who would sexually harass the female interns, housekeeper for business convention dorms and for the special olympic atheletes, art director at an ad agency with too many unhappy people. Oh and I did have a lemonade stand once. I may have missed some but none lasted very long.

Now I'm interning at another ad agency as a creative assistant. I'm feeling restless.

I work in porn

Just out of school and determined to live anywhere besides my parents' new bunk bed guest room, I took the first job that came to me in San Francisco. It's just freelance and all I do is look at nudie pictures and color correct them but still I can say I work in porn. For eight hours every day, I sit in front of 27 inch monitors with gay porn magnified 28 million times before me. Honestly, I felt uneasy at first – like I would be punished for doing something very wrong every time someone walked by. I had an instinctive panicked reaction to want to immediately close any window called B.ig B.ang or Cow.boy J.acks. But as I looked around in twilight-zone confusion everyone else was looking at gay porn on the job.

Unfortunately after just 3 weeks, today is my last day. And not because of some sort of work related accident. I was offered an internship at an ad agency. It's just an internship and the pay sucks but it's one step closer to what I really want to do. And I don't have the, um – height – for the one step closer the porn job would get me.

I'll honestly miss it a little. The stocky middle-aged, self-proclaimed "queen" that only speaks broken Spanish to me, giggles uncontrollably, and says, "I so bad" whenever he refers to something that seems dirty...yet I never quite understand.

The very shy customer service rep with shaped eyebrows who I'm positive turns into someone fabulous like Simone or Vanessa on Friday nights.

And the sassy production guy who talks to himself all day in his corner and sounds exactly like Coco Peru.

Goodbye porn job. I only hope advertising will be as entertaining as you.