On my first actual day of work, my boss took me to a Korean barbecue and proceeded to ask me all the normal questions you ask a new employee you’re just getting to know: “Tell me about your marriage, how’s your relationship with your parents? What do you think is a normal amount of men for a 24-year-old girl to have slept with? Does your answer change if I tell you that she was raised by a single Mom?”
Somewhere along the way I let it slip that I was a writer. Obviously my next step would be to dodge any follow up questions and avoid giving any more details because by that point I already knew I was going to have to write about him on the internet. But there were no follow up questions, just his sudden eagerness to tell me more about himself:
“Oh yeah, me too. I mean, I don’t write, but I’ve always thought someone should write a book about my life. People would be amazed.”
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Over the next few months I waited for him to share some sort of insight into why his life was so amazing— maybe he’d overcome some incredible odds. Maybe his identity was rooted in some sort of invisible struggle or hardship that the world needed to know about. Maybe he’d thrown off some seemingly glorious social convention and struck out into the world to make something of himself.
His aspiring book idea didn’t come up again until a few weeks ago, when we were looking over a compensation tool and trying to figure out how to pay our staff. His second iPhone (the one he uses strictly for Tinder) started buzzing.
Him: “That’s so crazy. I was texting with this girl for a couple days. She sent me some super sexy photos so I figured I should buy her a drink. But then she just stopped texting.”
Me: *clicking around on the computer, making mildly interested noises without looking away from the screen*
Him: “So anyways, I was seriously just about to send her a ‘Fuck You’ text and then she texts me.”
He holds up the phone, like I should be jaw dropping amazed by this riveting tale.
Him: “I swear, someone should follow me around with a camera.”
Me: *tries to figure out what I missed when I was ignoring the words coming out his face hole*
Him: “Or maybe I need a ghost writer. It should really be a book but I’m too busy to write a book right now.”
Me: *finds nearest spiky thing to impale self on*
Do you know anyone this out of touch with reality? Is your life interesting enough to warrant a book? What’s the last conversation you wish you could have escaped?
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