Someone scheduled me to interview a prospective employee at 8:30 a.m. I don’t usually show up for work at 10 a.m. So far, that extra 1.5 hours means a geometric progression of suckiness to the day.

The guy was pretty smarmy. He interrupted me a few times to tell me I should be perfectly frank with him. Yeah, of course, because everything fucking about me shouts that I am timidly holding back. Let me see, do I know how to be fucking frank? You mean, like, I should speak freely and not edit myself and shit and perhaps be direct. OH, Mr. Man, I’m not sure little old me can do that, sir, because, you see, sir, I might say something wrong, and, you know, I don’t want to offend a big important man like yourself, sir. But thank you for telling me it’s OK and that I can trust you, because I worries so much about the men folk and whether I can trusts them. (Ironically, given that last line, I do have a few trust “issues,” but we’re not talking about me right now.)

So, sure, dickhead, thanks for the permission. Now, wait a minute, I’m the one interviewing you, so, yeah, thanks for the fucking permission. I was so worried what I should say to a guy I may never see again, thank you for putting me at ease.

All people in this organization on this day, regardless of how much more caffeine I try to pump into the fragile and aging ecosystem of my body, can just bite me!