It’s been years since I’ve attempted this, you know, whole blue collar thing. I’ve made great love to the pay checks of many a man with a 9 to 5, but holding one down myself has proven to be a bit of a challenge. And today is a perfect example.

I threw my legs out of bed and reached for the bottle of antidepressants at my bedside. I considered taking an extra pill but these little bundles of forced joy don’t work that way.

Ah, screw it. I fingered a few pills out of the bottle and swallowed with a deep inhale and a swig of stale tap water. I closed my eyes.

I’ve been in and out of strip clubs and hotel rooms and spa doors for so long. I don’t even know how to fake being a professional.

I looked at the clock.

Whatever it takes to look and talk like a bored teacher on their first day back from spring break, I’m gonna have to figure it out, and fast— because I’m half an hour and one Uber ride away from an interview at the only place I’m willing to walk away from the cold, hard cash for.

I rubbed the sleep out from my eyes and threw on an outfit I’d picked out the night before.

You know, my skimpy lingerie sets are more comfortable than business casual attire. I mean, seriously. My vulva lips are spilling over these pant seams.

I peered down the hallway at the kitten heels I’d borrowed from my best friend the night before. I already know I’m coming back home with blisters. I’ll take a blow dryer to them before I leave, maybe stretch them out a little, not that it’ll help. I live in high heels but faux leather makes my skin crawl and the lack of rhinestones is really cramping my style.

I don’t know what made me think I could do this.

My problem is blending in. I don’t feel like an active part of society, but rather someone who sits on the outskirts watching the world as if it were a reality TV show that I’ll never be casted for. It doesn’t bother me, either. I like my little corner of this world. We’ve got great hygiene and lost our minds a long time ago. But, if you want what they refer to as a “normal job,” that just won’t swing.

Taking a peek in the mirror, I caught sight of my fluffy eyelash extensions. I raised my finger up to poke them and my focus shifted to the long, acrylic nails I’d had done a few days before.

Sigh.

I need to look like I spend my free time baking pastries and writing children’s books, or something.

I really should’ve interviewed somebody’s geriatric mother before I sent in that application. Granted, I lied on my résumé. I’m a firm believer in lying on your résumé’s… just be prepared to back up those lies with more of them.

“Come on, I know you can do this…” I muttered to myself in the mirror, “you lie to men for a living, for Christ’s sake, you were born and bred for this moment.”