The New Me

by Halle Butler

The whole scene is a bitter cliché, the expectations and ego barely hidden behind the flimsy presentation of friendliness.

She shuffles the papers and sighs, trying to make my job seem more important, so that her overseeing of my job can seem more important.

Back at my desk I sit and slowly collect money that I can use to pay the rent on my apartment and on food so that I can continue to live and continue to come to this room and sit at this desk and slowly collect money.

You can’t ask someone to help you without letting them know you’re different than advertised, that you’ve been thinking and feeling strange things this whole time. That you’re uglier, weaker, more annoying, more basic, less interesting than promised. Without letting on that your feelings are easily hurt, and that you are boring, just like everyone else.

I get to work, cleaning (I always seem to be cleaning). I feel instantly depressed.