Diary of a Regretful Odds Jobs Club President

What starts as a reluctant loophole—creating an odd-jobs club just to satisfy Queensbury’s mandatory second-year policy—quickly spirals into mild panic when you remember the monthly activity reports. An empty club means no activities. No activities mean questions. What was supposed to be a quiet, effortless credit turns into a desperate campaign for literally anyone to show up—client or member, you’re not picky. You hang posters, rehearse your “professional” tone, and silently beg the universe for a knock on the door. And when someone finally does step in—whether seeking help, curious about joining, or dragged in by your recruitment attempts—the club stops being a joke and starts becoming something real, one awkward request at a time.