Money is a bitch

"Fuck, I need that job," I say to myself and I see a pile of bills pile up out of nowhere on my make-up table. Memories of your financial situation being a lot worse than it was five seconds ago fill my brain and I can almost literally feel my blood pressure rise. "Shit, I got to add subjective caveats whenever I say something now," you add as you look down at yourself, finding your outfit has changed once more.

"At least past me - seems to - have had the wits to dress for the interview," I say and pull on a blazer to finish the more professional look. I grab a few cheat sheets I've been writing on and read up on the potential new work place as I wait for the ride to arrive.

"Johnson & Rockwater consultant inc, a few dozen employees selling their expertise to clients, which are probably family friends of whomever Johnson and Rockwater are," I read as sit in the passenger seat of my ride. The driver is stealing glances at me and I find myself unable to arch my back a little in appreciation.

The position is for a "social media marketing consultant," which you'd say you got quite a few skills within. Computer science education, at least, what I'd passed of it? Gone, replaced with straight A's in marketing, acting, sales and presentation. A childhood of being an attention seeking brat became more and more clear in my brain, making my new life a logical chain of events.

If I wasn't so engorged in trying to do a good job at this interview, I'd probably whine at me becoming more dependent upon other people's approval of my superficial attributes.

"Are you here for the interview?" the front desk secretary asked, pulling you out of your stressed head for a moment.

"Uh, hi. Yeah, I came here for an interview," I say and notice the more comfortably dressed woman in her 40s give me a disapproving look.

She leaned closer and spoke in a lower voice. "I should save you the embarrassment, coming to an interview at this company looking like that..." she said as she pointed at my chest, the patterns of my embroidered bra shining through. Her finger went down to my tight skirt and ended at the see-through stiletto heels that barely covered my toes and were tied to my legs with thin leather straps. "We're not an... modelling firm," she added, the delay of the word "modelling" hinting at what she was really thinking about your looks.