Let me tell you about the fun.
The worst jobs are the ones where they want to stay. The clients who pay me to become their dead spouse, their estranged child, their younger self. They always want more time. “Just one more hour,” they’ll say, gripping my borrowed hand. “Just one more conversation. Please.”
Maybe I’m just a collection of other people’s mannerisms stitched together with guilt and good intentions.
I’ve done all of those things. Some for money. Some for survival. Some just because I could.