yesthisismartin asked: i absolutely adore your work, can't get enough!
Wow! Thank you! You mean the writing or the art? It means so much to hear from you. Thanks!!!
If you were interviewing for a position within my heart, I’d say, Tell me your credentials and give me examples of your work ethic. You’d list all the things that you did in the past that prove you’re good at working in the heart but you admit, quietly, that although you liked those places, those hearts, you just didn’t feel they were environments within which your true potential could flourish… and that’s what brought you to my heart. You believe you are the right candidate for the position and you would say, “I want the full-time management position of your heart” and then you’d smile and add, “I’ll even throw in some data analysis,” and so I’d say, “Great, we need a data analyst.”
"What else can you offer me here, if I were to come work in your heart?" you’d ask, and I’d reply, "There are great benefits. First class. It’s like fucking Google in here." You’d tell me you saw that in Wired Magazine but you’re glad to hear me confirm it. You want to know when you can start if I hire you and I’d say, “The position is effective immediately.” Then I’d add, “Wait, do you need two weeks notice to tell any other hearts you’re in currently?” and you’d say, “No, I’ve been unemployed for a while. I really wanted to wait to find the right position before taking any job.” Then I’d say, “But hey, the economy, it’s been terrible. I mean, you must have —” and you’d stop me, quiet me with your finger, and confide in me something you’ve never told a potential employer of the heart before: “I’ve never filed for bankruptcy, even during the recession. I’ve saved relationship dollars in a small bank so I’d be okay on a rainy day, but then my uncle - who was dying - said, You better not wait for the rainy day because you might die before it comes. That was depressing advice and I didn’t want to just spend my heart money but I realized that I should be more proactive and try to find the right position, now, rather than wait until the time was better because heck, is the timing ever better?” I’d shake my head, No, in agreement.
This would make me really happy because I’d know you really were ready and that you wanted to work in my heart, not just because you needed to. I’d ask you if you plan to stay for a while or if this is a temporary position and you’d say, “I want to see this heart grow! I want to be a part of why it explodes! I want to see it become the biggest heart that’s ever graced the cover of Fortune Magazine. I want to have shares of your heart so if it ever sells, I can make more money from it,” but then, oh no! You said too much. “You would want me to sell shares of my heart?” I would ask as tears welled up in my eyes. “No, no,” you’d shout. “You got me wrong! I meant I want to become the CEO of your heart and I never want to make it public.” Okay, good, I think. “Well, then,” I would say, extending my hand. “Welcome to my heart.”
There’s this lady named Mildred and she’s in the corner of a coffee shop with a name she can’t remember because all she can think about is how gassy she is. She’s farting a lot and thinks maybe it could be from the Banoffee pie or the pistachio cake she ate earlier, but she’s not sure. Out of ideas, she relaxes back into the wall. She lets it support her for a moment, giving her head a rest too, brains and skull and all. Mildred’s wearing a dress because this morning she decided she doesn’t like being a ghost anymore so when she looked in her closet, she pulled out the girliest and most unconventionally un-Mildred piece of the lot and resolved to undo herself today by doing herself up. She treated herself to those pies and cakes because she thought the dress was bringing her good luck- based on the looks she’s getting from the guy on the other corner of the coffee shop it’s still happening- but all of a sudden everything is going downhill and she can’t stop farting. They aren’t huge farts, though, or silent-but-deadlies (SBDs), but she can feel her dress ripple in the wake of the wind she’s creating in her corner and she laughs a little because really, it’s quite funny- the speed and rhythm of them. She tells herself she’s grateful there’s such loud music so no one else can hear but then she sees the guy on the other end of the room wedge himself out of the space he had not too long ago lodged himself into. He’s walking over to her and he’s smiling but oh shit, Mildred can’t stop farting. Maybe it’s the soymilk? she wonders, but there’s no hard proof, just poof. And in what Mildred counts as the moment she wishes she were a ghost again the song ends and the man is before her, in the path of a tornado he doesn’t know is about to hit and in that freckle of a moment that could have been sneezed over, the air that once sat between her legs has now floated up to her nose and she breathes in so much embarrassment she could package it and sell it for a hundred bucks to the bully who needs to use it at some tough school nearby.