Had an interview today. I popped into a random office and asked for the restroom key, and they gave it to me because I was wearing a nice suit. What privacy. I should have thought of that back in the day. There was some purple in my tie to match my shirt, and my slacks were black, not purple, like my mom would probably wear. The position calls for writing and marketing the brand. I have to research then send him an article about the industry for the website to show him my skills. There were M&Ms in a jar on the coffee table and a small partition wall separating his desk from the lobby. Maybe he's selling some shady product based on vanity or fear, and if anything his applicants can do his research for him. It's a small office with no tag at the door. I don't know if I'm cynical or afraid of being a sucker—but I am a sucker, that's why there's a big budget behind the blog to prop me back up. Maybe it's a fear of being seen as the sucker in this world, so you try to put out love, instead, to compensate. And all you can hope for, in the end, is they use the last line before the opening scene of some really touching foreign film in translation that I'll watch some other day—of course, she knows the language.
I'm not going to the beach with them tomorrow, no fuckin way. They can write me up. Her in a bathing suit? Ay maron! My trunks are really short, dad trunks, from over a decade ago, the early 90s, straight out of Czechoslovakia. I can fit into my slacks though, real good—they'll look and nod, nod sternly. I couldn't a few days ago. I'm still afraid of food. It's like recovering from a small car crash. It was like taking shots, in the bathroom—and spite, while they were at the meeting. I was in grade school in my head. Yesterday I had chicken noodle soup from Subway and immediately felt fat. I was a walking concrete trash, bag...container box, near a bus bench, a freakin bus bench, man. The only difference between us was that I couldn't move. I had an extra cracker and caught myself then caught myself catching myself. None of it adds up though, because it was the prospect of another night of binge impulse remorse and her not checking me out during family group, that preceded the first episode.
I was totally vibing her when she talked about her mom's mental illness, but nothing, I was getting nothing, none of her cat-burglar eye. Then it was my turn to speak. I couldn't believe the fluency and gentle elegance of my tone. It was the most profound English my parents had ever heard. I felt like an angel was speaking through me, but she got up to get more Gatorade. There were still three slices of dried Tombstone pizza left on the counter. I heard her in the kitchen from the back of my voice, and felt my tone getting worn like that of a wounded soldier. She had no more reason to return to group, and I had no reason to listen anymore. C'est la vie, Pierre. In 6th grade I watched Heather and Chris sing "Basket Case," face to face by my desk, and I knew she liked my best friend. Then they went on to hold hands. Now I've come around to that acceptance again. He's a taurus and she's a scorpio like me. Everybody likes him, both of us do—it's in the books. I watched him cooking when he had a girl over. He's older than her. And he's a good man. Maybe it hits home, and everything comes back to me again. They helped me season my french fries while they cooked together that evening, then they went off. Now you'll excuse me, I have to go write the best damn article I can.
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