by Eli S. EVANS

Of­ten, I think that the on­ly rea­son I keep my job, de­spite lack­ing any par­tic­u­lar fond­ness for car­ry­ing out the spe­cif­ic labors it en­tails, is so that when peo­ple ask me what I do for work, I do not have to be­gin my re­sponse by say­ing, “Well, ac­tu­al­ly…” But then, on days such as to­day, the day be­fore I am ob­lig­at­ed by the terms and con­di­tions of my em­ploy­ment to re­turn to work fol­low­ing a long and thor­ough­ly en­joy­able va­ca­tion full of back­coun­try hik­ing and health­ful foods and lit­tle hemp flower cig­a­rettes con­tain­ing on­ly trace amounts of THC, these days al­so be­ing days on which up­on fur­ther re­flec­tion the idea of be­gin­ning my re­sponse, when peo­ple ask me what I do for work, by say­ing, “Well, ac­tu­al­ly…” re­al­ly doesn’t sound so bad af­ter all, I re­mem­ber that the re­al rea­son I keep my job, de­spite lack­ing any par­tic­u­lar fond­ness for car­ry­ing out the spe­cif­ic labors it en­tails, is that I need the mon­ey bad­ly. In case you were won­der­ing, the of­fi­cial ti­tle of my job, which al­so serves as a rea­son­ably on-the-nose de­scrip­tion of the afore­men­tioned labors it en­tails, is “Horse In­sem­i­na­tor.” In short, I in­sem­i­nate hors­es, fe­male hors­es, with the se­men col­lect­ed from male hors­es by, I can on­ly hope, some­one who earns more mon­ey than I do, and needs it even worse. 

Filed under Fiction on September 24th, 2021

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