The Interview

"So why do you want this job?" The CFO asks, steely gray eyes, gnarled demeanor, hair pinned up to the snore-bore core of her six foot seven height, making it six foot nine.

I gulp.

WTF.

You see I don't actually WANT this job if it means working with HER.

I panic.

I think about my life. Why was I always picked last for dodge ball, and all the other sports? Why had the entire sixth grade class decided to laugh hysterically at my knobby, wobbly knees? Why was I such a dark horse? Why was I the black sheep in my family, a family of athetes, graceful ballerinas? Why was I here?

I actually hate marketing and this would be a marketing analyst position masquerading as a pseudo-customer service rep with shitty-swill-of-the-universe hours (4 am until noon), and very little pay.

But it was still better than nothing, and a had a heap of nasty bills to pay.

I need this.

I look at her with my most conservative, anal look.

But I blow it.

I just know it.

I just do.

That's my life. Blowing a lot of things. Competing with others and losing.

A loser. That's what I am.

And it just sucks ass.

It really does.