two very vaguely related things

Yesterday E and I spent the rainy afternoon driving around town listening to monster ballads and trying to find me a restaurant job so that I can start paying someone rent and perhaps bringing my checking account balance back up to a healthy $0.00. Some of the places were closed, some weren't hiring until the summer when everybody leaves, and some were just hiring dishwashers. Later at dinner we were discussing our day:

G: I wonder who is a dishwasher in Ithaca...high school students maybe?
E: Yeah, because there are no Mexicans here like in New York.
G: [snorting laughter] I was thinking the exact same thing earlier.
E: [snorting laughter] Seriously!
G: But, I mean, there are also great Mexican cooks and stuff.
E: [very quickly] And Mexican doctors and lawyers.
G and E change the subject.

Yeah we're going to hell. In a handbasket. Whatever that means, exactly.

Speaking of hell, I recently began to read The Devil Wears Prada. The writing was so, um, not good (by getting published standards, let alone those of six months on the New York Times Best Seller list,) and plenty of stories about horrific high-powered fashiony bosses have already been provided to me by His Droneness, that after 30 pages of adjective happy, generic and inaccurate tales of post-college NYC life, I skipped to the last 10 pages and pretty much got the whole nauseating story. Still looking for something to read before bed, but not wanting to begin one of the ~600 page novels I'd bought in an attempt to reintroduce myself to the wonderful world of reading for pleasure, I returned to E's little bookshelf. Everything was pretty much of the college reading list variety, except for Shel Silverstein's The Missing Piece Meets the Big O. Not since Anna Karenina in 10th grade (and Where the Red Fern Grows before that) have I been brought to tears by a book. And this one took five minutes to read, as opposed to two months. [In case you're unfamiliar with the story, there's this little wedge-shaped piece that is all alone and looking for a shape that fits it to roll with. Many shapes come along, some that fit but don't roll, roll but don't fit, are missing too many pieces, or have too many pieces already. The piece meets a circle with just the right shape missing, and they roll for a while, but then the piece grows and has to say good bye to the circle. Finally the Big O comes along. The piece wants to roll with it, but the Big O is not missing a piece. It leaves, telling the piece that despite it's inability to do so currently, if it starts to flop over by itself its edges will wear down and it too will be able to roll. So the piece sits alone for a while, then begins to flip over, then wears down its edges, soon is rolling all by itself, and in the end meets up with the Big O and they roll by themselves, together.] While, granted, I have a little chemical imbalance at the moment and identified greatly with the missing piece (I'm at the part where the piece sits alone for a while, about to start moving,) the story is seriously fucking heart-warming and inspirational and should be cherished by all. And I don't think I've ever said anything like that last sentence without a heavy dose of sarcasm before.