It's not an interview, homie. It's a date.

8:00 AM

This is not a date. Your date shouldn't look like this. Image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/usfbps
You stuff your gut into the itchiest panty hose known to a woman. You pull out "da suit". And if you're like me, you still rock heels like a clumsy 12-year-old, because...what else do you wear with itchy hose and "da suit?" Huh?

Arriving ever-so-15-minutes-early, you look for the suite number and head for the elevator thinking, "Father God, thank you for the opportunity, but please, don't let this job suck!" The interview begins early, because, well, what else are you going to do? Sit there, looking crazy?

Oh my bad...this is a date story, right? As much as I loathe office settings, my last date, near the lake in University City, was like an interview for one of dem "basic people" jobs.

The two have eerie similarities, yo: The back-to-back questions. The follow-up questions. The strong yet cold handshake. The talk about your job. Ugh! I'll take an apple martini, STAT.

The rehearsed banter...passionless rehearsed banter.

And why did dude not want to talk about himself?

He's hiding something. Matter of fact, he hid his shoulder-length dredlocks under one of those huge, knitted hats. Wasn't even cold enough yesterday for all of that. Still, he sat, laid back like he was in a recliner, just coming up with questions to ask. And follow-up questions, too.

I think I'm most annoyed by his entrance: He wore his iPod earphones when he greeted me. Dude, really. Are you 12?

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