Good help is hard to find. I should know because I’m so good at working. No one believes me when I tell them, but it’s true. However, you might say I’ve carved out a certain indelible legend of myself and now can’t come back from it. It’s an exterior of disinterest and apathy masking a caramel center of too much passion for what is naively called in the film industry “the right project.”
Except I’m not in the film industry. Though god knows I tried to be in my own meek screenwriting way at one point, when I still had the cloak of optimism that comes with being eighteen when you pick your major. No, I’m in the cube industry, and even then, only at times. They can have my body, but not my mind. Or maybe they can. I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by cubicles. Physically and emotionally. The point is, I’m a hard worker I am. I just can’t be if it’s something I don’t care about. And I really don’t care about a lot. But I’m a hard worker I am. You’ll see when you finally tire of all those other lazy, overpaid white girls growing asses for a living under the guise of doing “mentally strenuous” computer work. For you see, no one has the threshold for tedium like I do. I can sit still as a tick–like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille–just waiting for the right job to come along.