Girl, constipated
Job interviews constipate me.
At age twenty one, out of boredom and a last attempt at convincing my parents that I am not the spoiled rotten brat that they raised over weekly shopping orgies, I sent out an application for a telephone operating job. Yes, I wanted to be a telephone operator---despite the elite-college education under my belt and consternation among friends waiting to happen.
The interviewer, a pleasant gentleman, threw the question of the century at me, with a lip-quivering, nostril-flaring facial expression: Why?
I didn’t know what to answer.
He promised me a call. For the next few weeks, I received calls from boozed-up college friends wondering why the heck I didn’t take the board exam and why am I getting engaged so early in life to an arrogant, law school attending, Astrology-reading Italian.
To make the long story short, I never got hired to be a telephone operator.
My father told me, nonetheless, that he was proud of my being down-to-earth enough to venture into telephone operating. He peppered me with pleasant, sugared encouragements that by the end of the conversation, I resembled a happy retard too joyful to care about the sad fact that he is a retard.
By the way, my father never mentioned my telephone operating venture to his medical school friends over red wine-laced Kool-Aid during weekend dinners in his garden.
From then on, the idea of job interviews constipate me.
So a couple of days ago, I had to sneak out of the college paper’s Christmas party to attend a job interview scheduled at two in the afternoon with a college professor.
It was for an Editorial Assistant job. My mother reasoned, “You write but it won’t feed you.”
I reasoned that being a moron at a job involving CSS and HTML won’t feed me either.
At the job interview, Mr. Uyboco presented me with perhaps six pages of both personality and intelligence test questions.
The questions designed to determine one’s persona were all right. I was okay with the Einstein-esque intellect questions as well. It was the mathematical equations I couldn’t swallow.
So I left them unanswered.
Then came the hot seat questioning: the job interview per se.
The details about your secret life—the little hushed stories you hole up because you never want them to come up in conversations—are brought out of the closet making you wish you could bleed to extinction.
I loathed my first four years of college idling and killing myself over lessons on ergometry and color theory and trends. I was supposed to never include a confirmation of such an ugly experience in my resume. However, I wanted to somehow give myself credit for putting up with it.
The job interview that Thursday afternoon brought me my first job interview-induced constipation in five years. I dragged myself to a college friend’s apartment, conditioning my brains that pain is purely psychosomatic. After all, I am never used to using someone else’s toilet.
Later at evening, back at home, I realized that the fish fillet mignon I stuffed myself with earlier that day and the cans of Coca-Cola I used to wash it all up were the culprit.
But still, job interviews constipate me.
At age twenty one, out of boredom and a last attempt at convincing my parents that I am not the spoiled rotten brat that they raised over weekly shopping orgies, I sent out an application for a telephone operating job. Yes, I wanted to be a telephone operator---despite the elite-college education under my belt and consternation among friends waiting to happen.
The interviewer, a pleasant gentleman, threw the question of the century at me, with a lip-quivering, nostril-flaring facial expression: Why?
I didn’t know what to answer.
To make the long story short, I never got hired to be a telephone operator.
My father told me, nonetheless, that he was proud of my being down-to-earth enough to venture into telephone operating. He peppered me with pleasant, sugared encouragements that by the end of the conversation, I resembled a happy retard too joyful to care about the sad fact that he is a retard.
By the way, my father never mentioned my telephone operating venture to his medical school friends over red wine-laced Kool-Aid during weekend dinners in his garden.
From then on, the idea of job interviews constipate me.
So a couple of days ago, I had to sneak out of the college paper’s Christmas party to attend a job interview scheduled at two in the afternoon with a college professor.
It was for an Editorial Assistant job. My mother reasoned, “You write but it won’t feed you.”
I reasoned that being a moron at a job involving CSS and HTML won’t feed me either.
At the job interview, Mr. Uyboco presented me with perhaps six pages of both personality and intelligence test questions.
The questions designed to determine one’s persona were all right. I was okay with the Einstein-esque intellect questions as well. It was the mathematical equations I couldn’t swallow.
So I left them unanswered.
Then came the hot seat questioning: the job interview per se.
The details about your secret life—the little hushed stories you hole up because you never want them to come up in conversations—are brought out of the closet making you wish you could bleed to extinction.
I loathed my first four years of college idling and killing myself over lessons on ergometry and color theory and trends. I was supposed to never include a confirmation of such an ugly experience in my resume. However, I wanted to somehow give myself credit for putting up with it.
The job interview that Thursday afternoon brought me my first job interview-induced constipation in five years. I dragged myself to a college friend’s apartment, conditioning my brains that pain is purely psychosomatic. After all, I am never used to using someone else’s toilet.
Later at evening, back at home, I realized that the fish fillet mignon I stuffed myself with earlier that day and the cans of Coca-Cola I used to wash it all up were the culprit.
But still, job interviews constipate me.
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