Can You Hear Me Now?

When I first moved to Washington State, I was looking to find a second job and believe me, I was doing a lot of job hunting. I’d been working two jobs for the past few years and it didn’t seem as if I would be able to stop working a second job any time soon.

For those of you who don’t know, I moved to Washington state a little over a year ago, trading the crowded Northeast for the wide open spaces of the Pacific Northwest. It’s beautiful here, the flowers and colors of summer brighten the days; panoramic views of snow-capped mountains; the bay and the sound; the wind and the sky. Everything is so much larger than life here, like the towering pines that reach towards heaven, so massive that you feel humbled to stand in their shadow. By light of day, the air is abuzz with bustling bees and bouncing butterflies, while enormous dragonflies cruise in lazy circles overhead. Our friends come to visit, the finches with their indignant shouts, cackling crows and a little red hummingbird that darts in and out. Other friends drop by; there’s a fat little raccoon that begs for his dinner and the many deer that eat from our hands. They have no fear of us and yet, they’re still a bit timid. If you’re lucky, the deer might let you pet them for a moment, before they shy away. Not that little raccoon bastard, though. That little fucker has some mighty big balls and will actually climb the stairs to the back deck, when he’s looking for a handout. He’s a cheeky little fucker, but he looks so cute, when he begs for food.

As I’ve already mentioned, I’d been doing a lot a lot of job hunting, trying to find something that was part-time and flexible, without having to work at a restaurant. Again. I’d spent days hitting the streets, dropping off resumes and filling out applications. I’d spent weeks online, submitting online job applications and resumes. My resume was posted to every job site on the fucking planet. Hours had been spent writing customized cover letters and tweaking my resume. I’d stared at my phone and laptop screens for endless hours, stared until my eyes had glazed over, clicking and tapping on links to apply for jobs via email and job placement services. I’d taken personality tests, psychological tests and competency exams. I’d spent hours, days and weeks hustling my ass off, trying to find a job. I should have had dozens of interviews and a few offers by that time, but I hadn’t heard a word. No emails, no phone calls, nothing. Not even fucking crickets. That led to a little bit of a crisis of confidence for me. I mean, I know I’m an asshole and all, but am I that much of an asshole that no one would want to hire me? You don’t need to answer that; it was just a rhetorical question.

Never one to give up, I kept plugging away, but I still had the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. Even worse, I was starting to run out of money. Frankly, I was so fucking poor, I’d started rinsing off my paper plates to save money. Don’t judge me.

Meanwhile, my mobile phone had become possessed by some kind of bizarre, batshit and vindictive demon. The phone was throwing temper tantrums and having fucking seizures. When it spoke to me in my mother’s voice, I knew that it was possessed by Satan, himself. The phone would constantly crash and need to be restarted. Trying to find a signal at my house was an exercise in buffoonery, as well as gymnastics. I’d run around and chase the bars outdoors, indoors - from room to room and then back again. Reception would go from five bars to zero, from zero to three and then from three to fuck you, your call dropped in less time than it would take to scratch my balls and say, “What the fuck?” Messaging was hit or miss, mostly miss. Fuck that. It would have been faster to send fucking smoke signals. I shit you not. Staying connected to Wi-Fi was like holding out both of my hands, wishing in one and shitting in the other, just to see which hand would fill up first. I couldn’t receive any voice mails, either, because I’d never been able to set that up and it’s not like I would have bothered to listen to voice mails anyway. When I see a missed call, I return it. I’m not going to waste my time and listen to a fucking message when I’m only going to have to call you back and you’re just going to tell me the same fucking thing. Again. I don’t need to be told twice, so I might as well save myself the time and the effort, by just calling you back. I’m just efficient like that. Efficient motherfucker, that’s me. Sort of like a Terminator of Efficiency. Anyway, I could go on, but I think I’ll just stick to the highlights.

Well, since I had been doing all of that job hunting, I decided that it might be a good idea to get that voice mail issue taken care of, you know, just in case anyone might ever decide that I might be worthy of employment. Highly doubtful, but hey, you never know. I had tried to address the voice mail issue several months before, while I was still back in PA. My lazy ass actually walked into a T-Mobile store and interacted with an actual, live human being that was unable to provide me with any customer service, even though he happened to be a customer service representative. The person whose job title was a lie instructed me to dial 611 for customer care and that I would also have to interact with yet another human being.

Why? Why two? Wasn’t dealing with one human being punishment enough for any given person on any given day? Having to deal with two different people seemed a bit excessive and cruel. Wasn’t there a machine that I could talk to or press buttons and shit? I’m really good at that. The situation was making me anxious. What is this world coming to? Will the horrors never cease for a fragile flower such as myself?

So many questions. I actually have all of the answers, just so you know, I’m just not going to fucking tell you any of them. I’m a selfish prick like that.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

This motherfucker actually expected me to tap three numbers into the phone and then sit there on hold for God only knows how fucking long, just to talk to some dumbass named ‘Biff’, in Bangalore, just so I could get voice mails that I would never listen to? Get the fuck out of here. Jesus, talk about way too much fucking effort. In hindsight, maybe I shouldn’t have procrastinated and just gone ahead and exchanged pleasantries with ‘Biff’ in Bangalore. I mean going ahead and getting shit done actually gets shit done and all, but sometimes the process can take too long and move too slowly and I just don’t have the patience for that kind of shit. Once I’d arrived in Washington, I thought it might be a good idea to finally resolve my voice mail issues and I mustered up the strength to dial 611. It was exhausting. I think I strained my finger a little.

The fucking sacrifices that I have to make.

The phone froze. Of course, it did. Undeterred by this nearly insurmountable obstacle, I restarted the phone, tapping my toes in time with the catchy little tune that I was humming while waiting for my phone to restart. That’s complete bullshit, of course. I was mentally picturing myself smashing that fucking piece of shit phone into its component atoms, allowing it to return to the cosmic dust from whence it came, but I couldn’t, which sucked, because I really wanted to. Living the dream. Yeah, baby.

The phone restarted, I keyed in the number, the phone started to dial and then the call dropped. I tried again and the call dropped a second time. Again and again and again and again and again…

Finally, the call connected and I was too scared to even fucking breathe, afraid that if I did, I’d lose the signal. I was still as a statue, looking all like Michelangelo’s “David” and shit, except that my dick’s bigger than his. A lot bigger. Ladies, I just felt the need to point that out. It’s like the Moby Whale of dicks. I also rent it out for weddings and special events, although most of my exes might say it would be best at a funeral. Meh, tomato/potato.

An interactive, computerized voice answered the phone. Fuck me, I hate those fucking things, but at least it wasn’t a human being. Yet. I hate that fucking caveat. The computerized recording started spouting all of the standard bullshit that all computerized recordings go on about and asked me why I was stupid enough to have to call customer care.

“I need my voice mail reset,” I enunciated, slowly and carefully.

“Did you say that you were calling because you’re an idiot and you don’t know how to use your mobile device?” the computer asked, “Did I hear you right?”

“No,” I replied.

“Let’s try that again,” the computer stated.

“Voice mail,” I tried again.

“Did you say that you want to know how to set up your voice mail? Did I hear you right?” the computer asked in its sneering and mocking tone.

Motherfucker.

“No, you fucking idiot,” I said, my voice rising. “I just want to reset my fucking voicemail.”

“I don’t have to take this shit from you,” said the voice.

No, not really. The computer asked me if I’d prefer to speak to an agent and I jumped at the chance, quickly saying the word agent, like sixteen bazillion fucking times, until the computer graciously passed me along to the agent queue and an interminable wait. Let me tell you, that computer was one arrogant, little fuck. While I was being held captive, a recorded message kept trying to feed me bullshit about some sort of bullshit, but I just wasn’t hungry enough to eat any bullshit. Finally, the recording asked me if I’d like to have an agent call me back, instead of being on hold until I died of old age and it promised that I wouldn’t lose my place in the queue, if I did.

That was a no brainer; sign me up, bitches! Who the hell wants to sit on hold and listen to the same bullshit over and over? Not me. Fuck, it’s almost like reading one of my stories.

I took the easy way out. The recording told me that it would only be two minutes until my call would be returned. I smelled bullshit, but hey, whatever. Since it was only going to be “two minutes,” better known as four times the best thirty seconds of her life that a woman will ever enjoy with me, I sat by the phone and oh, so patiently waited for my call to be returned.

Fifteen minutes later… Nothing.

Thirty minutes later… Still nothing.

Thirty-five minutes later, the phone rang and I answered it. It was some jackass wanting to talk to me about continuing my education. Don’t get me wrong, I like education and school just fine and have nothing against them. I like them so much, in fact, that I went to third grade three times and by the time that I was in fifth grade, I had the biggest penis in my class. I was also twenty-six. As much as I love education, I really just wasn’t in the mood for that bullshit.

“Your mom already taught me everything I need to know.” I said and I hung up the phone.

After forty-five minutes, the phone rang again and this time, it’s T-Mobile customer care. The snotty little douchebag that returned my call wanted to know why I was so stupid that I had to deal with an actual human being instead of being just stupid enough to be able to solve my technical difficulties myself, by using the automated system. The way that fucking asshole kept going on about the fucking automated system, I thought maybe it was like his fucking kid, or something. Shit, I’ll bet that little prick fucked his PlayStation and it gave birth to the automated system; the bastard child of sexual assault.

If my arms were as long as my penis, I could have reached through the phone, throat punched that arrogant little motherfucker and smiled as he turned blue and flopped around on the floor. Oh, if wishes were horses.

I began by explaining that I needed my voicemail to be reset. The call dropped. I resisted the urge to set my phone on fire and instead, I started walking around in circles on the deck, chasing the cell phone signal. I got lucky and found a spot where I had three bars. Glory, glory, hallefuckinglujah.

I pulled out my lighter and flicked it a few times, sprouting flame. I did this within full sight of my phone, making sure that it understood the danger and the threat to its wellbeing.  Fucker. I’m pretty sure it got the message, though, because I was done fucking around.

I called customer care once more, the automated system was engaged and I immediately started asking for an agent. It’s the same story as before. I can either wait on the phone or I can have an agent call me back in three minutes. Whatever. Using my earlier experience as a performance rubric, I figured it would be at least an hour before they called me back, so I tossed my phone on the counter and started doing stuff around the house. Sure enough, the moment that my dick was in my hand (figuratively; okay, literally) is the same moment that the phone started to ring and I had to run to answer it. Run. As in walking quickly, but faster. Fuck, it was horrible. I’ll never do that shit again. Pinky swear. So, if you ever do see me running, you’d best start running too. There’s probably a really good reason for me to be running. Just trust me on this one, okay?

I answered the phone again and this time it was a woman with a very thick accent that I could barely understand. Even worse, “Betty” was a low talker. Great. Yeah… great. Just fucking great. Yeah, no. I could already see that call going sideways. I deliberated hanging up the phone and trying my luck again, in the great customer service agent crap shoot, but I decided against it. Instead, I explained my situation to the agent and she told me that it wouldn’t be a problem to reset my voicemail and that she just needed me to give her the last four digits of the primary account holder’s Social Security number, which would have been my now ex-girlfriend Jen’s Social Security number and a number that I did not know, not having expected to ever need it. I informed the agent that I was named on the account as being able to make any and all changes. She said that was fine, but that she still needed those four numbers to proceed. Well, it was after 10:00 pm, my time, which meant that it was after 1:00 am back on the east coast and Jen was soundly asleep. I certainly wasn’t about to call her and wake her up over something as trivial as my voice mail. Once again, I plead my case to the agent; I explained that I was job hunting and that I really needed to have working voicemail, or I would be living in a cardboard box on the street with my little dog Toto, too. My sad tale of woe must have melted her heart just a little bit, because she told me that she was going to ask her supervisor and that she’d be back in a jiffy. In a jiffy. Seriously. Who fucking speaks like that? It’s archaic as fuck.  Unfortunately, the agent was back on the line in less than a minute and the answer from her supervisor was, “No.” Yeah, fuck you, supervisor and bless your little fucking heart. The agent recommended that I either get the digits from Jen or that I could have Jen call on my behalf. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock, but thanks. She then asked if there was anything else that she could help me with.

Bitch, you couldn’t help me in the first fucking place, what makes you think you could help me with anything else? Why is it that motherfuckers who can’t help you always want to know if they can’t help you with something else, too? It’s like, here, I just totally cock blocked you, can I do it again? And they do that shit with a smile, you know those motherfuckers do.

I told “Betty” that no, she couldn’t and then I thanked her for not helping me, because that’s just the kind of polite motherfucker that I am. Discouraged, I hung up the phone.

I called Jen the next morning and I told her what had happened. She told me that she’d take care of it, but that it might take a day or two. No worries. Meanwhile, I still hadn’t received a single call about a job. Wtf? I just didn’t get it and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I’d even started applying for jobs that I normally wouldn’t even consider applying for, but wages out here are pretty decent. The minimum wage here in Washington state is $9.47/hr., but almost everyone pays more. Most jobs seem to start anywhere from $11-$18/hr., unless you’re in the restaurant business, where food servers and bartenders are earning the minimum wage, plus tips. Not a bad deal.

I sent out more resumes.

After a few more days of turning up nothing during my job search, I received an email from a recruiter informing me that they had been trying to reach me by phone and that they had been unable to leave me a voice mail. Of course they couldn’t leave me a fucking voicemail, because I needed my fucking voicemail reset and I couldn’t get my fucking voicemail reset and Jen still hadn’t called T-Mobile. Over the course of the next hour, I received two additional emails from other employers, informing me of the same thing. What? Wtf? My phone never rang. I knew that signal strength was shit where I lived, but I was still receiving calls from friends and family back on the east coast without problems, so I knew that I could get calls, but apparently, no one on the west coast could call me. While that explained a lot, it sure as fuck didn’t solve anything. Wtf? No. Seriously. What the fucking fuck?

Thankfully, I could still make local calls and I called all of the companies that had contacted me and left apologetic voicemails and then I replied to the emails, as well, apologized again and expressed my continued interest in the positions. I started thinking about all of the resumes that I had put out there, wondering whom else might have tried to contact me and the opportunities that I might have missed. And then I started worrying about all of the new resumes that I had just sent out; no one would be able to contact me. Fuck.

I called Jen again and told her what was going on, that I seemed to be able to make calls just fine and could receive calls from the east coast, but when it came to the west coast, I was shit out of luck. Jen told me that she was on the other line with T-Mobile and that she would call me back when she was finished.

After a few minutes, Jen called me back and she told me that my voice mail had been reset and that I would now be able to set it up. Hooray! Jen also told me that my phone needed some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery done to it, in order for the phone to be able to pick up west coast towers and that T-Mobile was also going to send me some kind of whizz-bang doohickey for me to plug into the wall and that this particular piece of technological wizardry would dramatically enhance my signal reception. The only thing that I needed to do to get the whole shit show rolling was restart my phone and the changes would take effect immediately. Then, I just needed to sit back and wait for the postman to deliver the letter, the sooner the better. Oh please, Mr. Postman…

Jen and I said our goodbyes, I restarted the phone and then I immediately set up my voicemail. At least I tried to, anyway. The fucking phone wouldn’t dial and I kept getting a notification that I wasn’t registered on the network. I walked around the house, looking for signal and I finally found a single bar. I jumped up and down, stood on my toes, climbed up the drainpipe and performed awkward, contortionist moves that would have made a yoga instructor green with envy and the fucking phone still wouldn’t dial. I tried over and over until finally, the call connected. I was so happy, I wanted to piss myself with relief. I followed all of the recorded instructions and pressed all of the right numbers. Fuck, it was exhausting work, but I managed. After what seemed to have been hours of strenuous and exhausting effort, I was now at the point where I could record my very own personalized greeting. My friends had talked me out of using my intended greeting, which was a simple, thoughtful and very effective, “Fuck off and die,” by claiming that it wasn’t very friendly and might not be what a prospective employer would want to hear. What the fuck ever happened to freedom of speech? Censorship is such bullshit. It’s all that fucking Obama’s fault.

Motherfuckers. Motherfuckers, everywhere.

Where was I? Oh, yeah…

The personalized greeting thing.

Why did I need a personalized greeting? Why did I even have to speak at all? I didn’t really want anyone to call me, I didn’t really want anyone to leave me a voicemail and I certainly didn’t want to speak to anyone, unless it was about a job. Leave me the fuck alone. I’m anti-social, don’tcha know?

I opted for the option to record my name, instead of a full greeting and let the recording take care of the rest. I made sure to congratulate myself for my own brilliance, because we all deserve recognition for a job well done. Honestly, I thought I deserved a plaque or some sort of honorable mention, but great genius is so often overlooked.

As I started to speak my name for the voicemail greeting, the fucking call dropped. Again.

Motherfucker.

Once again, I fought the urge to smash my phone into its component atoms. I fought that urge a lot, with my old phone, but instead, I reigned in my desire for violence and called my voicemail once again. It had to work eventually, right?

Did you know that Albert Einstein, who was a really smart and important guy, defined insanity as repeating the same action over and over, expecting a different result?

Yeah, it was like that.

Holy shit. I just started page nine and I haven’t even made it to the real story, yet. Fuck. I hope you’ve got some time to spare. Jesus, this is going to be my longest story ever and it’s just about a fucking phone call. It’s all of these fucking tangents.

Baffle them with your bullshit, indeed.

So, I called back and everything worked just as it should and I was able to record my name like a normal, competent person. Easy peasy, right? Nope. I played back the recording and decided that I sounded too serious, stiff and straight, so I invoked a Mulligan and did a do over. I played it back again and thought that I now sounded entirely too gay and that wouldn’t do either. I really didn’t want to sound like a refugee from some bad off Broadway musical. I recorded my name a third time. I mean it’s my name fer fuck’s sake and I still couldn’t get it right. You’d think I could manage to speak my own fucking name, but no, because fuck. I played it back a third time. Crap. That time, poor reception had left the recording filled with static. I tried again and got the same result. And again? Wtf? I’d had enough of that fuckery; I mean; we’re not talking fucking rocket science here. I’m not sure how many fucking tries it took to get it right, but it sure took a lot of fucking tries. I’ve heard that the 173^rd time is the fucking charm and apparently, it is.

Not long after I had finished failing my human competency test, I received a voice mail. A voice mail, a voice mail, I got a fucking voice mail! I was so excited; I was pissing myself with glee. Wait. The phone never rang. How the fuck do I have a voice mail if the phone never rang?

I called my voicemail and listened to the message. The message had been left by a recruiter named Holly, from a major telecommunications company, asking me to call her back in reference to the position that I had applied for. Her voice was hot, sultry and sexy, so I automatically assumed that she was an ugly troll. Trust me on this. It’s been my personal and painful experience that chicks with hot, sultry and sexy voices turn out to be none of the above when viewed in the cold, harsh and unfortunately, sober light of morning. Unfortunately, this seems to be the way it works and life is grossly unfair, but I want you to take this little nugget of wisdom with you and pass it along to future generations. Keep the fire alive, people.

I really wanted this job, so I dutifully dialed back and spoke to the (automatically assumed) hideous troll with the sexy voice. We chatted idly for a bit and then Holly asked me a series of interview questions, which I responded to with my usual wit, tact and charm and yet somehow, I still didn’t fuck things up. Interesting and hooray, for fucking me. I managed to bullshit my way through the rest of the interview and cried the blues to Holly, about my phone issues. She seemed sympathetic and agreed that the switching nonsense could really muck things up. Before ending our call, Holly informed me that I would have another telephone interview at 10:00 am the next morning, with Heidi, a different hiring manager. Heidi, I was told, would be asking me a laundry list of questions that would be different from the ones that I had already answered. I agreed to the time and the interview, thanked Holly and we concluded the call.

The next morning, at 9:50 am, I was seated and waiting for the call from Heidi. I had my phone, a pen and a notebook, in case I needed to take notes (which I did). I played on Facebook while I waited for the phone to ring, mainly because I was bored and I thought it would be somewhat more fun than shoving my thumb up my ass and sitting there in suspense. What can I say? Sometimes, I choose wrongly. At two minutes before the hour, I turned off Facebook and I stared at the screen of my phone, willing the fucking thing to ring.

It didn’t ring.

Ten o’clock comes and goes and I’m still sitting there like a dog in suspense. No bueno. Nope. No bueno, at all.

Wtf?

About ten minutes after ten, a voicemail notification popped up on my phone. The phone never rang. Again. Are you fucking kidding me? Motherfucker, if there’s enough of a signal for me to get a voicemail notification, there should be enough of a fucking signal for me to get a call.

I retrieved the voicemail and it was from Heidi, the HR manager with the major telecommunications company, mentioning our interview and asking me to return her call.

Fuck. This bullshit had really started to get old and it had the added benefit of making me look like a complete jackass, which really isn’t that hard to do, but it’s the type of goal in which I really don’t need any extra help in order to achieve it. No worries, I can do it on my own, but thanks a bunch.

Heidi’s voice, like Holly’s, oozed sex and seduction, but unlike with Holly, I didn’t automatically assume that Heidi was ugly. No sir. Quite the opposite, in fact. I pictured Heidi as having Dresden blue eyes; long, blonde, and braided hair; pert breasts ready to pop through her dirndl; flawless skin and long, long legs encased in those sexy lederhosen that drive all the little boys wild. Ja, ja. Basically, I was picturing the St. Pauli girl, sitting behind her desk with her skirt hiked up and breathlessly awaiting my phone call. You know, the kind of thing that will never, ever happen to me. The kind of thing that I can only dream about. Still, I can dream.

If life weren’t such an unfair bitch, that is exactly what my reality should have been, but alas, life is a fickle cunt and some dreams are just never meant to be.

I fucking hate my reality sometimes.

I called Heidi back and she immediately answered the phone. Her voice purred like a nitrous fueled, turbocharged sex kitten. That voice. Those lederhosen. Take me, liebschen.

I managed to stutter a greeting and I was somehow able introduce myself without sounding like a complete fuckhead. I quickly explained my phone problems and apologized for being so much trouble. Heidi laughed. I hoped that was a good sign.

After recovering from my phone fumble, the interview was off to a good start and Heidi started asking me her prepared questions, such as, “What did you like most about your last job?” and “What did you like least about your last job?” Scintillating shit. Just as shit was getting deep, the inevitable happened and the call dropped, because of course it fucking did. Fer fuck’s sake, sometimes I think that I am the physical embodiment of Murphy’s Law.

I called Heidi back. The phone wouldn’t dial. Of course not. Why the fuck would it work when I really needed it to. I cursed. A lot. Hard to imagine, I know, but I might have said a fuck or twelve. Who counts?

After a bit of rage and frustration, I mean thoughtful and peaceful introspection, I ran inside the house and I grabbed my buddy Luke’s iPhone. Now, you have to understand that my use of any Apple product is an indication of just how desperate I was. Fuck you, fanboys and girls, but I hate those fucking things and I really don’t feel like going off on a four-page rant about just how much and why I hate the fucking things. Suffice it to say, I hate everything Apple. I turned on Luke’s phone and saw that the power level was only at twenty percent, but surely, that had to be enough power to finish the interview. Surely. Fuck, I surely hoped so.

I frantically dialed Heidi back and apologized profusely, yet again, for all of the trouble. By that time, I thought that all hope of ever having St. Pauli girl sex with Heidi was probably out the window, but hey, stranger shit has happened, no matter how unlikely. At least Heidi and I would always have Paris, along with my twisted and juvenile fantasies.

Heidi continued asking me questions and I continued answering them, right up until the moment that I realized that I wasn’t talking to anyone but myself. The fucking iPhone battery had died.

I quickly grabbed my phone, dialed and oh, sweet baby Jesus, the call went straight through.

“Hi, Steve,” Heidi answered. She was laughing, so that had to be a good sign, right? Right?

That wasn’t a hypothetical question. I really needed the reassurance, at the time.

We continued the interview and I do feel that I comported myself well, if a bit awkwardly. Heidi asked me question after question and I always had the proper answer ready. I may be an asshole in person, but I can fake my way through an interview quite well.

Usually. I’ve blown an interview or two in my time.

Heidi started to wrap things up, but she let me know that she had one last question for me. It was a question that almost cost me the interview and one that came close to sending me flying right over the fucking edge.

“Have you ever felt frustrated by a piece of technology?” Heidi asked me.

Frustrated by a piece of technology? Me? The guy that wanted to smash his phone to pieces? No, not at all. Wtf? Hadn’t this woman heard a single fucking word that I’d said? My phone! My fucking phone! It’s possessed! It’s fucking demonic! Kill the fucking thing with fire!

I wish that I could have said all of that, I really, really do. Instead, I thought that shit right to her face, I swear I did. That’s the way it is and the way I am when shit gets real. After taking a moment to compose myself, I launched into a calm and rational explanation of all of the problems that I’d been having with my phone and I made sure to attach a humorous face to my story. I was lying through my fucking teeth, of course.

Heidi concluded the interview shortly after I answered her final question and she let me know that I had made the cut and she would be calling me back shortly to set up an in person interview. She thanked me for my time and I made sure to thank her for her time and consideration, as well as my new sexual fantasy, but I prudently left out that last part.

Not long after I had finished my interview with Heidi, she called back with the time and date of my next interview, a multi-person process that was scheduled for two days hence.

It was one of the most insane interviews of my life.

To be continued…

Did you read the last one?

Dick Breath