from the dating and employment annals: in which i go corporate and get my hands stroked in a dubious manner

I don't know: Are things looking up? Last night a hot man told me I could be a hand model, and today I had an interview at a fancy corporate social-media company. I know what you're thinking: This could be a downward trend rather than an upward trend. Believe me, I know.

I'm trying to get back into heartier forms of employment, and to that end, I've applied for some jobs. It's not without some hesitation, especially given the precarious nature of my health situation and the seriousness of my treatment options at this point (continue on Tysabri, in which case possibly get PML and go right ahead and die; or else, excise all of my insides through a surgical procedure). That's the main reason why most of the positions I'm looking are work-from-home (not to mention the fact that wearing a suit is stressful, ladies and gentlemen).

Case in point: I showed up today to my interview, was given a visitor's pass, and was keyed up to the top floor of the building, where the lobby of the company looked not unlike an uber-hip German hotel lounge. I passed designated "bike garages" for employee bikes. Would I like a beverage while I waited? (I considered taking a beverage to put into my purse for later, but then realized that that would betray my freelancer's "hoard now or forever wonder how much you could have hoarded" mentality.) No, I would not like a beverage. I waited, looking out the plate-glass window over the entire city and beyond, until someone came for me, leading me through mazes of desks where hip-looking people worked at their shiny computers, drinking free beverages and eating free pizza. Were they happy? No one could say, but they certainly looked well set up, if nothing else. I contemplated my silly suit, into which I was stuffed like a swollen pimento. (It turns out that being in remission makes you super fat.) I was positive that the interviewers would be able to see --- nearly bursting through the tenuous seams of said suit --- that I was a total sham, no business in this corporate place: a fiction writer!

"I am a fiction writer!" I declared very early into this interview, apparently unable to hold back the obvious any longer. Once the air was clear, I felt a little better. But I still don't know if they'll hire me.

Back on the hoagie/hand model front, I have to say that this new development indicates a bank error in my favor. (Even if it does further confuse the metaphor: "And here on the right, we have an Italian hoagie modeling our newest collection of opal rings!") I was informed that my hands looked "perfect, long, and clean." You bet your socks they are! With extra mustard! And thanks.