Jobless Repose

I'm looking for a job like I'm looking for the cat to piss in my milk. I sleep in because I'm earning money painting. Painting is like sour milk: repulsive, annoying, demanding ... the list of adjectives I could derive to describe my lack of compassion for painting is limited only by the number of entries into the Thesarus. Instead of getting up and getting there early and getting it over with, I sleep in, squirming and swearing like I've got ants up my ass. Brown paint, white paint, green paint, navajo white paint; benches, cubbies, walls, hookboards, shelves, God damnit. It's excruciating, and to compound my dilemna, the pro painters working their job alongside me come up and laugh at the way I clean, because I get paint all over me. They joke that I should join them, since I am now a painter anyway. Oh god no. I'd rather eat manure.