THE JOB INTERVIEW
...reminding us once again that if it walks like a Professional, if it talks like a Professional, it still won't get the job if it doesn't remember to blink once in a while. though it was mercifully dark in the room & maybe the protective resume-cloud in front of my face that beams messages of Responsibility, Punctuality, Organization & other corporate delicacies distracted them from my face. because i have NEVER gotten a job from a face-to-face interview. i could have a gold-plated resume that like delivered them bottles of dom perignon every morning & still if they want to talk to me in person? fuck THAT shit. my physical presence somehow a) creeps people out b) strikes a fundamentally Wrong chord somewhere deep in the reptilian part of their brains, causing inexplicable-to-them yet overwhelming repulsion c) projects a sort of malevolent incompetence that even the most eloquent, intelligent, COHERENT responses to their questions are eclipsed by it d) etc etc because I know it's not my voice. I get jobs when the interviews are conducted over the phone. maybe next time i'll try wearing a wig. or some sort of secretary glasses. I already wear a fucking secretary OUTFIT when I show up to these things, I mean, what else am I supposed to do, walk a typewriter around on a leash?
& it's also unnerving because I read that they look at the backs of your hands, this "they" whom I can no longer attribute to any specific class of people due to holes in my memory large enough to drive a truck through but there is a They who does this. & they had me write down my contact info & while I'm trying to manipulate the stubborn inkless sharpie as fast as possible the interviewer is like craning her head around to get a look at the back of my right hand. not to get all lady macbeth about it but. i'm SURE there's something incriminating on it.
amid my attempts to hide the invisible Damned Spot I was asked next to no questions while the non-interviewing woman in the room had a telepathic field day ransacking the singed corners of my poor brain, no doubt kicking back & relaxing with a cool beer to watch the fireworks as one neurological catastrophe after another detonated in a flurry of synaptic sizzling. interview most likely cut short because a piece of flying neuron hit her telepathic probe in the eye & all the needles came out of all the haystacks to join the party & it was just a huge mess & the maids refused to clean it up. because when you stretch metaphors THIS far, your brain does indeed develop its own cleaning staff. & you get to cut the hands off the ones caught stealing from your dopamine stash, because what point of metaphorical absurdity is complete without a little gratuitous violence?
[this is for yet another job I'm preposterously overqualified for but at least the commute is next-to-nothing & I don't have to talk to anyone. I'd be transcribing video footage concerning weird diseases & vanishing ethnic groups. don't all squeal in excitement at once now. it's better than being the personal assistant to a self-described "burgeoning media mogul" deargodwhatthefuckdoesthatevenMEAN or posing for a retinue of sleazy dudes whose devotion to ART is only matched by their devotion to TITS or whatever other shitty jobs I'd actually stand a chance at being hired to do]