I have (had) a job interview

She can be the office type
Or like to strip

The third interview in the series neared – monetary funds chewed and swallowed by business suits and sheer nylons (a byproduct of my inherent clumsiness), and I decided to embark on a last night of freedom, complete with booze, venereal disease free prostitutes, and 70's hair band music, like a bachelor on the eve of his wedding day, one last stripper fuck before the dreaded monogamy of a legitimate gig: wife, kids, eco-friendly picket fence, and dog.

I was soon to become a black polyester suit, a peek of lace cupping my perky breasts, and high-gloss heels. The only person to acknowledge my boasted WPM, and superior skills in spreadsheet creation would be the office pervert, all while staring down at my dwarfed breasts. This was to be my uniform, to herald a professional's entrance, and the precursor to the mundane. I was scared shit-less.

[Side note: I never have understood the term "scared shit-less". One is so frightened that they cannot shit? I was unaware that fear dictated bowel movements.]

I tiptoed across the plush carpet of the stairs, craning my neck in suspicion to the four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, (knowledge of cardinal directions made possible by the new T.I. song) and upon reaching the last step, made a mad dash for the CD collection, wedged in between looming forest green law books, clandestine nests for nudey mags. The two creative succubi stared up from their homespun macaroni n' cheese, but I only shook my head, a signal I was off-duty, no longer the go-to. The condensation from the bottle lapped at my palm, the other wrapped The Rolling Stones – sorry kiddos, but I am no longer mommy.

I sipped the beer and waited…no luck. Writing, the maid of honor, the notary of my very existence, was a no-show, a fraudulent RSVP. I entered into a vicious cycle of one-liners, fuck linked to –ing in place of an adjective. My bachelor party wasn't amounting to much – me, myself, and I guest list the cause. My characteristically bare legs glowed with reddened irritation from an earlier mock interview dress. The floor littered with the items. The night threatened to go unnoticed – a party dud.

The head hunter from the staffing agency had suggested I make a list of strengths to prepare for the final interview. I took her advice, only to waste some time before the stripper arrived of course. The pen wiggled in my fingers, I nibbled at my lip for nourishment.

My Microsoft skill level is proficient, below par in Excel. I managed to circumvent spreadsheet construction through my less-than-conventional college employment. I am organized, except for my closet and car, which I have come to blame on a freak twister that only ravaged my room, car, and then mysteriously folded back into the clouds. I have first-rate interpersonal skills, unless it is a douchebag, turned so by a pre-lunch-break hypoglycemic attack.

Well, I'm – umm… charming? I could charm the pants (or skirt) off of anyone, or at least their checking account. However, I do not perform acts of fallacio on females. If the interviewer happened to be a woman, I had no real strength to speak of. The lines of the paper taunted me with blank monkeys riding their backs. The only words read: "I'm nice".

A yawn and stretch. The notepad had found its way to the floor, inching to the heap of clothes in the middle, to ridicule over the water tank I presumed. My pesky grandmotherly sleeping habits had come to crash the party. Sleep was imminent. The low caffeine content iced tea licked by the two cold brews. There would be no unprotected sex, no "oh shit", and no streaking. I was ready for the adult life, my sleeping habits already there.