Where I belong

I effed up a job interview so badly I was ready to run from the "star chamber" (their term) crying, but it just kept going on and on, and then finally the manager, a little old buddha, said, "Miss, I'm just not sure you'd be happy here, you're just way too overqualified for the position, maybe I can talk to another manager and see if they have something more challenging for you."

And I was like, "okay," but inside I was almost screaming. Excuse me? You don't know if I'd be 'happy' working for you? I'll be happy to pay the rent. I'll be happy to eat. I'll be happy to have insurance! I don't have any money and I don't ...

I don't know what I'm going to do this month. So I have to start making calls, asking people to give me a month so I can pay the bills, but what does that say about me? Nothing, right? I just can't pay right now.

But inside I feel so ... ashamed that I'm not together, that I don't have a job, and what does that make me?

A failure, that's what it makes me. I'm a girl that can't get a stupid job because I'm overqualified as an administrative assistant, but when I go for something in payroll, I don't have the education and I don't have the experience, so they're like: what are you doing here? Maybe you need an entry-level position as an intern or you could go to our administrative staffing, and it's just a big, vicious circle, and I'm the loser in the middle.

This too shall pass, and I'll be happily employed somewhere as an, idk, art curator, or a librarian ("please tell us about the duwey decimal system." "The what?" "Uh, yeah, thank you for your time.") or as a bar maid/wench ("You touch my ass again, I fucking break your fucking arm!" "Ooh, feisty bitch!" *SMACK!*) ... or something.

I think my problem is I don't fit anywhere. I'm scared of people, and that comes out as shyness or in-your-face-ness. I don't belong in the past, because they way the Greeks treated women? WAY better than their contemporaries, but they were still property: chattel. I don't belong inside a Twilight book, because I'd try to punch Edward in the face, if I ever got enough guts, and I'd end up as supper for James and Victoria. Not so bad with Victoria, I suppose, but being sucked dry while the neurotoxin in the venom makes your last seconds ones of pure agony?

I don't belong here... because of everything. I was called "Unearthy," but that's not even right: the space aliens would get tired of my restlessness and constant bitching.

I ... truly am a siren, a mermaid, a selkie. And I keep looking and looking and looking for my otter-skin, and keep not finding it, so I can't swim away and be with my mer-people and comb my long, full-bodied mer-hair (mermaids' only clothing, don't you know, so their hair is loooong!) and sing songs and hymns as we blow through our conch shells in our mer-kingdom of Atlantis ... until I got bored there, or a mer-guy'd try to cop a feel, and I'd even be kicked out of there, for disorderly conduct.

Hail, Eris!

I am discord. I am pure chaos, but aren't ... but wasn't Eris happy? Why am I not happy? My life (heh, right, like I have a life) is a mess, and I wreck everything in my wake.

I wish I could write me as a story, so I could look at the story and say ... 'eh, this character isn't really working.'

And just write me out of it, just be a figment of my imagination, and nobody but me would know that I ever existed. Just like my character Nichole in Ridden, something I tried, but I don't know if she works, she brings too much to the story that's isn't about her, so ...

So with an 'eh,' she's gone, and none of you knew, nor cared.

I wish I could do that to me. I just bring too much to this story of life that isn't about me, not really, it's about you and everything else, and we don't need the complications of me being around. I wish I could just write me out of this story of life, and nobody would know, nor care.

Then ... then I would be truly happy. Oblivion would be my fate, and I would taste gall on my tongue and my eyes would see nothing but pitch and tar, and ... I would be ... happy.

Because then it wouldn't be about me any more. Truly. And I wouldn't have to pretend any more. I would have to pretend that I was happy or I was fine or that I was okay and getting by.

Because then I would be nothing. And I'd finally be free of this world and it's false hopes and promises.

And I'd, truly, be happy then.