When I think of Freelance, my mind jams into high gear and goes right to visions of the Pulitzer Prize. Hoards of intellectual fans exalting their favorite journalist. I didn’t realize it, but I’ve lived with Freelancers in one form or another my entire adult life. Imagine my shock and astonishment when I learned what Freelance really means. Pulitzer be damned! I’m the real thing.
A breakdown of the word itself:
- Free – Brother, there’s nothing in life that’s free. One way or another, you will pay. It may not always be alimony or slip fees for your yacht, but I promise…you will pay. Take the example of the annual Bitch and Bash my ex-husbands hold in some remote voodoo village, usually around Hallows Eve. I’m certain at the top of their agenda is how much I’ve cost them, emotionally. Heaven knows, it wasn’t financial. They had to flip a coin last year to see who was going to sleep on the cot, and who was cuddling in the floor with the other exes. The full description of my foray into marriage goes without saying, but here it is anyway in case you missed it the first time. Ain’t nothin’ free Tex.
- Lance – Now this is a tricky one with multiple meanings. It could be a huge spear hurtling toward you, carried by a crazed guy that looks like a bad version of the Tin Man from atop a mounted horse. You might also be talking to your medical professional about the boil on your arse. If you were unfamiliar with the word Lance before your little tete-a-tete with Dr. Kildare, it’s going to come into sharp focus when he suggests that his 6-inch scalpel make an incision on your bum. That, my friend, is Lance in a nutshell. Come to think of it, I believe that through the sanctity of marriage, I have experienced Lance in each sense of the word.
- Origins – Freelance originated in ancient times. If you wanted to rule a country that currently didn’t belong to you [think Braveheart], you would take your 30 pieces of silver to the nearest Jason Bourne, and hire him to extinguish the ruler of said country. The aforementioned badass worked Freelance. He would singularly take care of your un-wanted ruler issues, and you and Guinevere would Skip-To-My-Lou until the breaking dawn. I’m not certain how many times I can reference my flow-chart of exes, but this is yet another example of how I fit the description of Freelance. If only I’d had 30 pieces of silver, I would now be the ruler of my own country.
So if you’ve got a bag of money to hire a lone horse-jockey with a big stick to drain what ails your backside, you’ve probably found the next Pulitzer Prize recipient.
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