I got a job. The party's over.
Since all my pants disintegrated into long-legged thongs, which are inappropriate to wear to job interviews in this society, I had to wear a skirt.
I had to use depilatory creme because my hair was too long to be shaved off in a timely manner. This made me smell like burnt tires and my armpits started bleeding.
I don't really have any nice shirts, and I tried on several hideous outfits before I settled on the most stylish one I could find, which was from about 5 years ago on average, and cost about $15 altogether.
I thought that something was amiss when I was repeatedly sexually harassed, once by a cop, on the way to the interview. During the interview, the manager told me that he was hiring me based on my "look," and proceeded to describe what outfits I should wear on Friday and Saturday. "More conservatively than you're dressed now," he'd stressed, and I looked down and realized that I'd forgotten to wear a bra.
Sample questions on the application:
"What kind of grape is in a red Burgundy wine?" To which I replied "Concord."
"What is a CPR kit used for?"
"What is your worst quality?"
I looked at my pit stains, and wrote, "I can't seem to quit smoking."
"Why should we hire you?"
He told me he'd yell at me if I put a fork crooked on the table.
Now I have to go buy new job clothes at Good Will tomorrow before I start. I won't even have time to wash them.
I HATE NEW YORK.