2.7- Prose I did for a writing class

I bite my lip and breathe in deeply, let my head fall heavy to the back of the sofa and let out the air as harshly as I possibly can. My feet are throbbing. These dumb memory foam sketchers are a bunch of bullshit. They don’t help my aching back, neck, feet, knees, body at all. Nine-hour days in these plastic spastic high chairs bent over these moron’s phones. Telling them how to sign into email accounts and why their bill is so high and being yelled at for being the face of a multi billion dollar corporation that specializes in the service of a customer that they could not care less about. Faking being nice is more exhausting than being anything else. I smile and nod and absorb all the heavy blows that are not meant for me but a figment, a mirage. It is amazing to me how one person or a small group of people can start a company and after years they become so detached that they are just racking in money from the work of someone that they have never even heard their name. They literally are just a number, a dealer code, a username. My interview is tomorrow. I remember being young and telling myself that I would be a writer. I would live in a little cottage in the woods with a typewriter like Christian from Moulin Rogue. Maybe I would waste my life with a cancan dancer as well because I, too, have this “ridiculous obsession with love.” I always wanted my life to be romantic and tragic and here I am, preparing for this interview to be an office manger at a law firm downtown and I feel a piece of my soul die a little. The little 6 year old me dressed in hot pink boas and her mother’s high heels and sporadic glitter and red lipstick like a clown is just staring up at me with disappointment. Is this really what you want? I try to convince myself that this will be good for me. I will have an hour commute there and an hour back! That’s two whole hours that I can write every day on the train. But will I? Or will I get distracted by the passing buildings or my boyfriend calling or my expectations for the day or the nap I could take or the article on whether or not Kim Kardashian’s butt is real? Am I even a writer? Am I even an artist? I am definitely a liar. I am about to tell this man my goals for the next 5 years and pretend like they have anything to do with staying at his company. People believe that I am mediocre because my heart is not in anything I do. All I can think about getting hit by a bus like Frieda Kahlo so my mother who never took care of me when I was a child would be forced to take care of my paralyzed body so that I would be able to never work again and just FINALLY be immobile and write a damn book! FINISH A PIECE OF WORK! Sit and be still and focused and clear and concise. And I could learn all the rules of grammar that way I wouldn’t look like a complete and utter doofus. I wonder what he will ask me? What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses? What I think is so hilarious about that question is that no one likes to admit their real weaknesses. And you better not dare! They want to hire an honest person but don’t you dare tell them the truth because they will hold it against you for your whole career. I would love to tell them about my fiery temper and my consistent tardiness and my obsessive-compulsive tendencies. But I will stick to the cute little lies of oh, I work too hard, I am too hard on myself, I am too much of a perfectionist. My greatest strength is that I imagine murdering people constantly in my head, all day long, and I never do it. I would say that is pretty impressive. But, of course, I cannot tell them that. See, if I were the interviewer, I would appreciate this kind of honest and boldness. This will be just another place I don’t belong. I belong in between two pages of a book. I belong in the depths of my imagination. I belong in a drunken dream. But I will be hired anyways. And I will be one step closer to being a reliable adult, one step closer to financial stability, one step closer to the murder/suicide of my dreams and soul.

**side note, after hydroplaning into the back of a semi, I would say BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU FUCKING WISH FOR IDIOTS! I have been in the most pain in my entire life. Not being able to work has been the worse curse I could wish upon anyone. and surprise surprise, NO ONE has been taking care of me lol. except a select few GREAT friends and my loving adoring amazing uncle who I owe my life and everything I have to!!!! but yeah, Frieda, I have NO CLUE how you endured sista!

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