20 Questions

This morning I had an interview at the classiest most elegant place: Goodwill. No I’m kidding, it was at the next best place though: Macy’s. Macy’s is so classy that I didn’t fill out a job application I filled out an employment application. I was so nervous, like this is an amazing job, better than the dead end jobs I had before. If I get it, I would be working at the perfume counter/men’s department.

My interview was for 2:30 and I got there a little early, about 2:13. I waited around, waved to my soon to be fellow co-workers and started sweating. You see, I went out and bought a whole new outfit for this interview, a baby blue long sleeved shirt and khaki pants. I looked hot,; I was hot. It was about 2:25 when the manager walked out. She asked how long I was waiting and I told her about twenty minutes.

“You should’ve knocked on my door. I’m sorry,” she said, waving me inside her office, which smelled like Chick- Fil- A.

“Its okay. I didn’t want to disturb you,” I told her.

Interviews, for some reason, make me feel like I’m playing twenty questions.

“Why Macy’s?”

“What would you do…”

“How would you behave…”

“If we hired you…”

“Rock or mammal?”

Back and forth with seemingly fake answers that impress no one. But the question I hate the most is, “Tell us about yourself?”

This question always gets me off guard. Do I say everything? What do I keep out? What do they want to hear?

“Well, I’m a writer.”

“A writer very cool.”

“Yeah I go to school for it. My degree is Creative Writing with a focus on the screen.” LIE. If I learned anything it’s that lying gets you ahead look at Shia Labeouf.

So the interview went well, lasting only eight minutes and we parted on good terms. “I’m sure you’ll get a call by Tuesday,” she said as she led me out of her chicken smelling office.

“Okay, great. Thanks.”

“Now, you have to remember that this is a seasonal position so by April you could be in or out,” she said extending her hand.

“Like the gays in high school,” I say, grabbing her hand.

Then this asshole on OkCupid came in and shit all over my good day with the other question that I hate, “How big is your cock?” That word is just nasty, it just hangs there, lingering in the air almost like its real counterpart. I always imagine, whenever someone says that word, that a blonde sorority girl is saying it. "How big is your..... YASSS" 

I still haven’t answered him.