Life / The Stories

Fumbalina; Job Applications

As I’m toking I get an email about a decent job paying a ridiculous amount of money. I mean probably the most money I’ve made in forever. I literally drop everything I’m doing to apply. I even take the time out to pen a masterful cover letter. I feel entitled to the position. They should want to hire me. For the most part my income based housing is on them. Besides the fact that they would know exactly what my income is I am really qualified for the job.

Application from  phone complete.

I lay back and wait.  I even look at my phone as if I have impressed someone so much in the 2 minutes it takes to send my application; they are ringing my phone already. While I’m waiting for my phone to ring I take a few more hits. Right on schedule, Hunger makes its appearance. I’m cool with it.

Hoody, bra, sweats, and sneaks then I’m off to the corner store.  I took one lap around that place to get a balanced diet and back home to wait on my magical phone call. I thought it was going to be that simple.

I’m thinking about how urban rugged and sexy Lyfe Jennings is when she pulls up beside me. She just wants to make sure that I got the email for the job because she heard I was still looking and I would be a shoe in for the position. At that very moment I am higher than a giraffe’s ass and this shady heffa is talking to me about an official position.

And I know she knows. She is that shady ass aunt that knows and tells everyone’s business. She tsks tsks you under her breath and begrudgingly  offers to help you avoid not being shit your entire life. You take her shaming head down because she reminds you of your granny’s sister whose kids have somehow always been better.

I should probably let it go. Something tells me that I should just smile and thank her. But I don’t want her judging me. We both know that any excuse is going to be a blatant lie.  I still try to fix my face and clear my throat in an attempt to present my best interview voice.

My fake smile somehow morphs into a stoner giggle. My hoody is 2 sizes too big and my sweat pants are two days old.  We won’t even talk about the bright pink sneaks, or the untended hair. I shift my $10 bag of snacks and explain that my allergies are horrible this time of year. I can tell that she wants to slap the goof out of my troop. I just want her to go away so I can explore my new found feelings for Lyfe and nap this day out.

We give each other a disgusted side eye and bullshit chuckle. We kind of ease out of the situation and go our separate ways.

High blown. It’s the middle of the day I am 34 unemployed with a severe case of munchies. I ain’t shit but how dare she judge my life?

 

Starving Artist Fund

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