Resume, or "A Working Title"

This picture has little to do with this post. I googled an image for "working girl" with the intention of finding something depicting a posh looking chick in business attire. I got those, sure, but I also happened upon a photo of this gal who must have been 102-years-young wearing a skimpy saloon girl costume, complete with fishnet stockings and pleather boots with spiked heels. Naturally, I saved the image to my files immediately, seeing as how it was probably the most inappropriate thing that I could ever hope to find. However, when I got around to actually starting my post, I had second thoughts. It's hard enough to get people to actually read this thing, and the last thing I want to do is assault you visually if you have taken the time to take a peek at the land of Amy. So . . . I was looking through my collection of images, and there was sweet Eddie looking at me. See? He's looking at you now. And, I thought, if I had a fairy godmother who could wave a wand and give me the job of my dreams, this is what that fairy godmother would look like . . . I hope. So, there. That's that.
Ah, yes . . . Job of my dreams. I want that, so I'm working on my resume. This hasn't been an easy task for me because I'm uncertain as to which job experiences I should share and which ones I should just keep to myself. My work history is varied and colorful, so I've got a lot of material to choose from. Let's see . . . I've worked in a greenhouse. That was my favorite job ever. I frolicked around an indoor garden and got paid for it . . . Not much, mind you, but I was happy, so it didn't matter. I left that job to work for an obsessive compulsive optometrist who was also a diehard Southern Baptist. I probably don't need to tell you that he was perfectly beastly. He eventually fired me when he found me reading a Harry Potter book on my lunch break. Harry Potter? Please. If I had to do it over again, I would have been wearing sequined devil horns while reading ALOUD from the Satanic Verses while watching something involving donkeys and big-busted Cubans on the office computer.
Before all of this, way back during my early college days, I briefly worked for clearly insane people at an herb shoppe. The proprietors of said shoppe mixed and sold foul-smelling concoctions that they chose to package in beer bottles. They didn't even bother with pulling the labels off, which leads me to suspect that their "method" for "sanitizing" these bottles was dubious at best. They also sold things with dried flowers stuck to them. This is where I came in. Apparently, the lady half of Lord and Lady Whackjob, what with all of the tasks and responsibilities that go along with being a fullblown nutcase (i. e. hosting naked poetry slams, making recordings of electric saws running across sheet metal, having friendly chats with Janice Joplin through a conch shell, howling at the moon, etc.), she was simply too busy to bothered with sticking dried flowers to shit, and that HAD to be done. It HAD TO BE DONE. Okay. So, I was hired primarily to sit in a room that smelled like licorice, ass, and Budweiser and glue dried flowers to seeingly random objects; hats, styrofoam cones, coffee cups, porcelain cats, etc. Hey, it was a job, and I was a poor college student who needed money badly. What I didn't know upon taking the job was that these clearly insane people were the sort of clearly insane people who didn't believe in the exchange of money. They believed firmly in the barter system, so when my first "payday" rolled around, I was presented with the collected works of Anais Nin, 12 jars of lemon verbena jelly, and three boxes of Wheat Thins. I didn't need to run that song by The Clash through my head before making like that Seagulls song for the door.
So, yeah. I should probably leave this one off the resume, but I'm still not sure. You see, I want a job in a place that values creativity, and wouldn't any potential employer who appreciates a creative streak be thorougly impressed with the knowledge that I once got paid in jelly for gluing a dried out piece of flora to a porcelain cat's butt so that the kitty looked like it was pooping out a 102-year-old chrysanthemum? I think so.
See, here would be a fun place to insert the picture of the old broad that I mentioned WAY up at the top, but I won't do that to you because I play nice . . . Most of the time. My mind immediately made the connection between a dried out 102-year-old chrysanthemum and the plumed and garter-belted fossil in the photo, even though I didn't ask it to. It's just how the thing works. Funny.