I am not a cool girl. Go with the flow. Easy to please. Up for anything.

I’m a high maintenance bitch. I’m the antithesis of a professional woman.
Big business hates everything I stand for.

Woe to pointless meetings and casual chit-chat and “how was your weekend?”
Woe to capitalism.

I keep my door closed. I don’t answer the phone. If your event is optional, I’m not going. I recognize your preference for in-person meetings, but if there’s an option, I’ll join online. You see, the impact on my social battery is diminished through the screen. I don’t have to constantly construct myself in real-time, determining what body language, vocal inflections, and facial expressions are appropriate every second.

In transit between my office and the smoking area is when I allow myself to unmask. The consequences are resting bitch face and poor posture, but if I wasn’t this generous with myself, I likely wouldn’t be alive or sane. Sometimes self-preservation is everything.

I like to refer to myself as a fragile plant, and no, I’m not joking. I’ve carefully calibrated my cigarette breaks, caffeine intake, bathroom visits, snack and meal times, daily naps, and drinks of cold, cold water. If any element is out of sync, I’ll actually lose my mind.

But I understand everywhere I will not go. I’m not built for climbing corporate ladders, pitching myself as a product, staying up too-late at too-loud bars, navigating the nightmare of alcohol and overlapping conversations and trying to say just enough but not too-much.

And that’s all just within the context of my career path. It fails to fully encapsulate the eating difficulties, the executive dysfunction, the eternal fatigue. The innumerable selves clamoring for breathing room.

The constant contradictory nature of performance, of art,
of existence, of me.