The Hunt.

The anticipation itches forth from center palm in a clammy, sick kind of way. As if my hand wants to vomit but, lacking a digestive system, utilizes my pituitary instead. The usual bodily reaction to knowledge of self-betrayal, when one, fully aware of their scruples, no matter how ill-informed, deliberately acts against them. The faux leather kitten heels nip lovingly at my Achille's tendon, so playfully persistent that bloodshed seems imminent. A twenty-something year old preteen playing dress up, another sale item subjected to the demands of some unseen titan dictating decorum and proper etiquette; a conservatively dressed prostitute trying to convince you to buy. Oh, can't take my word for it? Contact my references, because obviously they know better than I know myself. Clamoring desperately for opportunities to shore up my market value, another indent on the ol' resume. Ah yes, my resume!, to have defined myself in the confines of a white paper rectangle, my blood and guts inked black in straight lines, Times New Roman, and bullet points. Two-dimensionalized (for easy transport and consumption), I carry all the essential parts of myself in a plastic folder, next to the tampons, tissues, and chocolate tin merrily jumbled in my purse.

Fuck this faceless system, people reduced to format text, coded numerically on some arbitrary scale according to how much of a moneymaker they can be made into, how easily they assimilate into this economically exploitative agenda. This shit just ain't for me. I have a face, a voice, two hands, and a functioning brain; can't be four-cornered, unwilling to give up my depth. When I walk up in there, oh the tirade I'll unleash! Straighten out these crooks, and swear never to don conservatively colored slacks again! The education I could bestow, knowing the little I know, the refuge found in each verbal blow, this rabid, instinctual urge to rebel and reveal and revolutionize, desmystify. Go on, ask me why, this system so obsessed with paper! I ain't got no fancy art education but you know what color you get when you mix red, white, and blue? GREEN. Mean green, dead presidents' green: the color of our nation. Paper people chasing more paper, this is the stuff Americans are made of. Flammable freedom, once ablaze, how quickly this nation will burn. Unwittingly, leading our lives foolishly on paper, we secede to a future of ashes, resign to inevitable oblivion and the erasure flesh. Paper has elimated the necessity for the corporeal, identities forged in binary code superceding the organic. My face, my voice, my hands, my fuctioning brain--all meaningless without paper backup. It just ain't right! I'll yell. I'll gesticulate as if swatting at millions of bees, infuriated, impassioned, and brutally correct!

Then, a voice shakes, followed by a handshake. All politeness returns to my voice. I take my seat with composure, attentive and docile. Prepared to succumb to questioning, standard procedure. I am content with my proof of existence, flesh and bone solid in front of my adversary, confident in my reality.

My interviewer pulls out my resume.
A needle to a helium balloon.
Looks at it before giving second glance to me.
Punctures the taut, artificial red rubber.
Assured of my existence, she proceeds as if she knows who I am, what I'm capable of.
The sound bursts like an open-palmed slap to the face.
At the end of our interview, she asks if I have any questions.
Red rubber carcass casualty.

Yes, one.
Why am I here?