And your name is Lisa

About a year ago, I was searching for a job on Indeed.com

I had my resume posted so that recruiters could contact me. Normal shit. Then, this guy Steve emails me about a job, addressing me at the top of the email as Lisa.

Dear Lisa, we would like to interest you in blah blah blah…

Who the fuck is Lisa? Lisa don’t live here no more.

The job was still relevant so he wasn’t a total loser. I emailed back questions. The only thing I got back was,

“Oh I got the names mixed up.” Nothing else.

Nothing about the job. Not one answer to any of my questions. My name is in my email address. It’s the first word. Impossible to miss. Asshole. I want to know how he got hired and how much he gets paid –  from an office where apparently Metallica’s, Nothing Else Matters plays on repeat:

Guitar intro {sing the words in melody to Nothing Else Matters, please}

So close, no matter how far

couldn’t be bothered when you start

forever trusting who you are

And, your name is Lisa…

Metallica owns all rights to their music and any reference to it, directly and indirectly.

4/5/6 – Green line, any time of day.

Call me mean but why doesn’t everyone love brushing their teeth?

Like what ideas do you have to have about teeth that you think they don’t deserve to be brushed? You think you can just live and not brush your teeth? No. That’s fucking gross.

If you’re an adult and I have to tell you to blow your nose.                  Don’t make me tell you to blow your nose. Why would you do this?          It is mortifying for both of us. Fuck.

I’ll usually just hand off a box of tissues, but sometimes they say no. They shake me off, like they’re ok. You are not ok. You are dead behind the eyes and need me to tell you to do this very simple thing. I’ll do it. I will be the one to show you the way, and when I do.

You do not make me say it twice. Also, you’re doing life wrong. All of it, all wrong.

How do I live my best life – insulting everyone around me. The homeless, the depraved, the talented, the filthy. The guy holding his calculator staring at it like it’s his phone. Fucking casio, people. That’s real life screen addition. I know I’m a total asshole, but I took eight photos of this guy. Holding his calculator. I imagined him writing boobless because that seemed harmless at first, but no it didn’t end there. He kept checking it every ten seconds… and I improvised his internal dialogue:

“What’d she say?” “What’d she say?”

Even staring at it for some time. “Fuck..She blocked me.”

Look, I’m not proud. But it’s because I am at this lower than low. I can be honest with you, right? It doesn’t get much worse than this so I feel I have a responsibility to be honest with you – a guiding glow if you will, the light at the end of the tunnel you don’t have to go down.

Just when you’re ready to be the worst person you can think of, I show up and say in a soft whisper, “Are you sure?”

“Are you sure you want to hit this old man in the train because he hit your backpack?”

“No. Good. Shut the fuck up. Sit down like the rest of us. No one actually wants to be on the train, so get the fuck over yourself.”