Get a REAL Job.

I work at a historical park. I'm an interpreter there. Not like, an interpreter for foreign people or deaf people, I mean, I act as tho I am living in the early 1800s and "modern" people can see my recreating the work of a Free Canadian at a fur-trading post and ask me questions about what I'm doing and why. And I answer in such a fashion as someone who really IS in 1815. I don't say, "In 1815, fur traders would have done _____." I say, "We do ____." It's living history. It's one of the only attractions of its kind.
And I got a huge blister on my thumb as a result of working in our historical garden. One of my friends here back home was super impressed by the size of it (it's pretty damn big) and when I told her how and where I got it she laughed and said, "See, that's why I have a real job. I don't get blisters from digging holes in a garden."
A real job? I thought I had a real job. Last I checked, I wasn't be paid in Monopoly money or crackers.
And I mean, I guess she meant, Get a proper 9-5 office job. Or work part time at a McDonald's like most kids your age.
But why would I do that? So that I can hate going to work and drag out every Friday just begging for the weekend do get here? Sure, I get blisters. Sure, I have to wear a costume and use ridiculous farming techniques that I know won't really yield much in terms of weed removal.
But I don't have to ask someone if they want their fries supersized. I don't have to sit in the Pro Shop of the Country Club all day counting pennies.
I don't have to have my boss bust my balls every forty-five minutes about elements of my job that I can't necessarily control. I don't have people asking me, "Why are you so stressed? Is it your job? Is it stressful? Are you stressed?"
No, I get to be outside all day. I get to work with animals. I get to talk to people from all over the world.
Sorry, I guess that doesn't quite fit into having a real job. But I did recently get a haircut, and soon I plan to quit being a slob.