Then I had to clean up after the potluck so they could interview me for the promotion. I expected it to be about what we do all day, which I am intimately familiar with. But no. It was a string of personal questions about how my life experience may have prepared me for the arduous task of analyzing. I struggled to draw meaningful content from my many nights of dicking around on the internet and staring enraptured at America's Next Top Model. I could not come up with much. But I think they were distracted anyway by my snazzy blazer and pointy heels, which I am counting on to win them over. They have never seen me in anything but wifebeaters and Old Navy flip-flops. At least not since my first interview.
All the nervous energy made me fidgety, so I walked up to the corner market to get an icee. On my way out, a guy told me I'd dropped something. I looked around for 10 or 20 minutes until he finally said, "It's your smile." My urge to kill him was eclipsed by the fact that I thought it was cute, so I ended up smiling. Shucks.