This weekend, my friend Dan and I travelled to Boston to visit our friend, Elizabeth, in her entry-level Boston pad. We all met in college, where we passed the courses and tests they gave us with flying colors. We were a bunch of smart motherfuckers, in those days. We could conquer anything.
Flash forward to the present day. The entry level.
The thing about the entry level they don't tell you is that you cease doing anything smart. You may have been summa cum laude last year, but now you're getting the coffees. You're passing things out. You're taking orders. And you're taking the blame.
YOU, my friend, are a slave to the man and your brain cells are probably disappearing as we speak. Not to worry though; you are not alone.
Take, for example, the instance of entry-level Dan vs. the entry-level microwave:
Dan needed food; not much, just a plate of leftovers. The kind of leftovers that require a quick one-minute nuking. No big deal, right? Wrong.
Elizabeth's microwave, you see, is just the sort of ghetto model that comes with most entry-level apartments. It's from an older generation than Dan and his friends. And it's mocking them with its manual-ness.
Dan and the machine are locked in a respectable staring contest, when Dan throws in the towel. He lifts his finger to the machine and presses the number 1.
The microwave roars to life... for one second.
Fail, Dan. Welcome to the entry level.
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