Edit: This is in the "literature" sub-forum as a piece of (semi-accurate) creative writing.
I have a long, silent dread of walking into a job interview. It feels more like the anticipation of being interrogated by a parole board, the constant threat of extended unemployment silently hanging over me as you pass sentence.
I was not the success I hoped I would be and I am an embarrassment in a society that lies freely for its own advantage. I can't compete against the smooth, talking lairs that come before me or will follow after. I have not their ease and confidence that can seduces on command, but am the prisoner of my honesty and my mistakes. I am both repulsed by their seduction and would jealously covet it in equal measure. Imagine having the charisma to get hired and laid all in one! You call it unprofessional, yet I sit here prostituting myself until I meet your satisfaction.
Frightened of the questions I never thought you'd ask and the ones I dare not answer, I force a smile. Trying to mask rage and fear, I hope for some primal force to intervene that will bury me alive, or decapitate me and spread my internal organs and blood spatter over a wide area. Now, spontaneous combustion would make for a lasting first impression and still be a true reflection of my life experience and potential. The years of therapy you'll need afterwards is just the foreplay for what's in store.
But then, I remind yourself, you're all ******s. Statistically, masturbation is practically universal and the graphic image of you pleasuring yourself, embarrassed by the vulnerability of your own desire, makes this weird performance review absurd. We all want to be loved in the end, hoping for one more moment of ecstasy as we travel to the grave, where neither wealth nor power matter beyond the eroding real estate of remembrance for the living.
It is just theatre. What can anyone learn by a brief dialogue and a two page CV? Am I supposed to tell you where the bodies are buried? Or would that be impolite on a first date? Should I wait until you already despise me for failing to meet you expectations to confide my secrets?
So here I am, with only the dark honesty of my entrance in your domain and the promise of competence to come to justify my presence. I need the money and I need the self-respect an income will bring. If I must sell myself, let it be the real me, and let my fear of your insults be your epitaph as they are obscured by time and, I hope, success.
[ @Rival may enjoy this. ]
I have a long, silent dread of walking into a job interview. It feels more like the anticipation of being interrogated by a parole board, the constant threat of extended unemployment silently hanging over me as you pass sentence.
I was not the success I hoped I would be and I am an embarrassment in a society that lies freely for its own advantage. I can't compete against the smooth, talking lairs that come before me or will follow after. I have not their ease and confidence that can seduces on command, but am the prisoner of my honesty and my mistakes. I am both repulsed by their seduction and would jealously covet it in equal measure. Imagine having the charisma to get hired and laid all in one! You call it unprofessional, yet I sit here prostituting myself until I meet your satisfaction.
Frightened of the questions I never thought you'd ask and the ones I dare not answer, I force a smile. Trying to mask rage and fear, I hope for some primal force to intervene that will bury me alive, or decapitate me and spread my internal organs and blood spatter over a wide area. Now, spontaneous combustion would make for a lasting first impression and still be a true reflection of my life experience and potential. The years of therapy you'll need afterwards is just the foreplay for what's in store.
But then, I remind yourself, you're all ******s. Statistically, masturbation is practically universal and the graphic image of you pleasuring yourself, embarrassed by the vulnerability of your own desire, makes this weird performance review absurd. We all want to be loved in the end, hoping for one more moment of ecstasy as we travel to the grave, where neither wealth nor power matter beyond the eroding real estate of remembrance for the living.
It is just theatre. What can anyone learn by a brief dialogue and a two page CV? Am I supposed to tell you where the bodies are buried? Or would that be impolite on a first date? Should I wait until you already despise me for failing to meet you expectations to confide my secrets?
So here I am, with only the dark honesty of my entrance in your domain and the promise of competence to come to justify my presence. I need the money and I need the self-respect an income will bring. If I must sell myself, let it be the real me, and let my fear of your insults be your epitaph as they are obscured by time and, I hope, success.
[ @Rival may enjoy this. ]
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