Smashing, Baby
I was sitting at my desk, crafting yet another version of my resume (because I am, as always, job hunting), when I realized my foot was sitting in something sticky. I looked down and saw a small pool of blood trickling out from under the ball of my right foot. Huh. Weird. It doesn’t hurt, how did . . . oh. Duh, you dumb psycho bitch. What did you think would happen? When I first moved to Chicago, my father gifted me with a hickory baseball bat and gave me some tips on how to concuss anyone who tried to break into my apartment. I hadn’t used it for much of anything until the day before. On that afternoon, I got a phone call for which I’d been waiting for over a month. “Hi there. We wanted to follow up with you about the voicemail you left yesterday.” The one where I called asking about the job? After I flew over 2,000 miles for an interview, and you never deigned to reply to my thank-you note, or give me any sort of response, for two weeks? That voicemail?