The interviewer asked about the gap in my resume. I tried to lie, weakly. She smiled, like a therapist, and I began to confess.
Well, I’ve been writing articles on Substack. “Like, as a hobby?”
Uh, no, like… It’s sort of always been my dream to be a writer.
“Oh, that’s cool, and you support yourself financially doing that?” Well, no, but…
“Did you ever think about getting a part time job, and just writing on the side?”
It makes me sick.
“What?”
The way you ask that stupid rhetorical question. “Did you ever think…”
Do you think I am retarded?, as in:
I never considered part-time work
I am giant baby who has never heard of part-time work
low-functioning autistic man child
idiot savant who memorized the dictionary but can’t tie his shoes
You ask this question like it’s one of “3 useful tricks and tips!” Really what it is, underneath everything, is saccharine fear. You know that I know what it means to be normal, and you know I chose not to be normal. This disturbs and disgusts you. You are bullying me into returning to civilization, for my own good. Your paternalism is passive aggression, an attempt to control me.
I am meant to explain myself. To comfort you.
Oh yes, I sat down and came up with a master plan of how to succeed.
Or no, I never thought of that, thanks for telling me!
There was no plan.
I was floating in the middle of the Pacific ocean, staring up at the sunset. I walked out of my apartment in boxers and waded into the water on my private beach. I was alone then, and I’m alone now.