It�s been a bad week. If I hadn�t had the appointment, I would�ve gone straight from work to the old mother ship to make like my friends, Modest Mouse, and drink away the part of the day that I cannot sleep away. Instead I was forced to take my rage to a job interview.

Most Midwestern middle-aged women terrify me, with the turtlenecks, short hair and oversized glasses. But yet, looking around a room full of kids who�ve clearly just graduated college, I know I�d get along much better with the matrons, who�d say thanks when I held the door for them, unlike the insolent young girl who followed me inside last night. I don�t want to meet new people, to figure out dynamics of yet another workplace. I just want to be able to pay my bills and to go out now and then. (BTW, thanks Fed, thanks for being closed for President�s Day, so I�ll get paid before my 3rd annual VD singles take back the night celebration Saturday.)

The second part of the test was a personality test. It was laughable. Lots of questions about how well you sleep and whether you frequently have feelings of uncontrollable rage.

In spite of the day, I think I had the sense to give �em what they wanted.

I just kept wondering how we all got there. I wanted desperately to take everyone aside and ask his/her story. Some I imagined were taking on an extra job to put ungrateful brats through college, in hopes that their child might escape without debt and with no work ethic. The others I assumed to have chosen majors unwisely, as I did.

I think I�d either be the very best or the worst possible candidate to speak at a career day. Nobody wants to hear me say they can only follow their dreams, so long as they have a wealthy family or they dream of being an accountant, lawyer, doctor or computer whiz. Heck, maybe anything but being in publishing.

Sure hope I get that job.