HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL AND FREE DONUTS

Jules showed up the next morning with a box of donuts and a look that said, “I have a plan and it’s probably illegal.”

“You got fired again?” she asked, handing me a jelly-filled one.

“Technically, I got pre-fired. It’s like early access to failure.”

She nodded. “You’re still brilliant.”

“I’m still broke.”

“Brilliant and broke is better than boring and rich.”

I bit into the donut. It exploded like a crime scene. “I need a new plan.”

“Good,” she said. “I already made one.”

She pulled out her phone and opened a message thread with someone named “Candle Queen.” I didn’t ask.

“She runs a candle company,” Jules explained. “Small business. Big ego. She needs someone to write fake reviews that sound poetic and vaguely spiritual.”

I blinked. “You want me to lie about wax?”

“Not lie. Embellish.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s the pay?”

“Fifty bucks per review. Plus a free candle.”

I stared at her. “So I get paid to describe scents like they’re emotions?”

“Exactly.”

I took the job.

My first review was for a candle called Midnight Regret. I wrote:

“Smells like the memory of a bad decision wrapped in lavender and self-awareness.”

The Candle Queen loved it. She sent me five more.

I described Passive-Aggressive Pine as:

“A scent that says ‘I forgive you’ while silently plotting revenge.”

I was thriving. My apartment smelled like a forest having an identity crisis.

Jules read my reviews aloud like spoken-word poetry. “You’re a genius,” she said between bites of a cinnamon twist. “You should be famous.”

“I should be employed.”

“You are. You’re a scent-based storyteller.”

I started writing under a fake name: Ash. It felt mysterious and slightly flammable.

One review went viral. Someone on Twitter called me “the Sylvia Plath of candle marketing.” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but I added it to my resume anyway.

The Candle Queen offered me a freelance contract. I accepted, mostly because I needed rent money and partially because I enjoyed describing wax as emotionally volatile.

I wrote late into the night, surrounded by candles with names like Vanilla Anxiety and Citrus Closure. My apartment flickered with light and the faint smell of existential dread.

Jules texted me:

“You’re officially a professional liar.”

I replied:

“I prefer ‘creative truth enhancer.’”

She sent back a heart emoji and a gif of someone dancing with sparklers.

I stared at my laptop. It felt like a portal to something ridiculous and oddly comforting.

I wasn’t where I wanted to be. But I was somewhere. And that was enough—for now.