HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

THE INTERVIEW THAT WASN’T

I didn’t get the job. I knew it before I left the building. Carol’s handshake had the warmth of a tax audit and the enthusiasm of a DMV clerk on hour nine of a twelve-hour shift.

Back home, I stared into the fridge like it might offer life advice. It contained:

- One bottle of mustard

- Half a lime

- A single slice of bread that looked like it had survived a flood and a breakup

I closed the door slowly, like I was saying goodbye to hope.

My phone buzzed. Jules.

“How’d it go?” she asked, no hello, no preamble.

“Great,” I lied. “They offered me a position as Chief Executive of Despair.”

“Nice. Benefits?”

“Emotional instability and free anxiety.”

She snorted. “So, standard package.”

I flopped onto the couch, which had seen better days and worse snacks. “I think Carol hated me.”

“She hates everyone,” Jules said. “She once made a guy cry just by asking him to describe himself in three words.”

“What were his words?”

“‘Confused, fragile, leaving.’”

I laughed, then sighed. “I need a win.”

“You need a donut.”

“I need a job.”

“Same thing.”

She hung up, promising to arrive in twenty minutes with sugar and sarcasm. I stared at the ceiling, wondering if I could monetize existential dread. Maybe start a podcast called Unqualified and Unbothered.

My bank app pinged again. Balance: ₦1,203. Enough for a bottle of water and a small existential crisis.

I opened my laptop and typed “jobs for people with no patience and questionable ethics.” The results were not encouraging.

I tried “freelance writing,” which led me to a site offering $5 per article about “the benefits of kale.” I considered it briefly, then remembered I once called kale “the leaf version of disappointment.”

I closed the laptop and opened my notes app. I had a list titled “Things I’m Good At”:

- Sarcasm

- Avoiding confrontation

- Remembering obscure facts about penguins

- Making people laugh when they’re trying to be serious

None of these were marketable. Unless I could convince someone to pay me for being emotionally available and mildly chaotic.

The doorbell rang. Jules, holding a box of donuts like it was sacred.

“I brought sugar and judgment,” she said.

“Perfect,” I replied. “I’m low on both.”

We sat on the floor, eating pastries and dissecting my failure.

“You know,” she said between bites, “you’re not actually failing.”

“I’m unemployed, underfed, and emotionally unstable.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But you’re funny.”

I smiled. “That’s not a job.”

“It should be.”

THANKS FOR READING

THANKS FOR READING