Call Me Kismet by PJ Mayhem

Author:PJ Mayhem
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PJ Mayhem
Published: 2019-03-15T16:00:00+00:00

25

That is the way my life goes for several weeks, victim of super bitch Broomstick and frequent visits to PGGG without any real advancements with Frankie. But then I discover I’ve secured an interview.

When the day comes, I wake more excited than nervous.

The squelch of a dead gecko between my toes isn’t the best way to start the day for me or the gecko but particularly the gecko—it hadn’t been dead until I trod on it. I don’t let the incident dampen my positivity; it must have just been the gecko’s time.

Being able to walk to the College of Sinology Studies is just another plus to this apparently perfect role. I’m sure I’ll immediately become a nicer person not having to endure the nightmare of public transport every day. Although I definitely won’t do the walk in one and a half inch heels in future. My feet are screaming already and I’m only halfway. Not that I’m going to let scrunched toes come between me and my shiny new future, even if they are lethal weapons where geckos are concerned. I’m powered up with the Act My Life technique Amethyst emailed out in her monthly newsletter this week (such timing!). It’s all about acting confident over and over until I become it and it becomes me. So I’m sure meditating on the traits I want to embody, visualising myself having them, telling myself that today I’m going to be confident and professional and bracing myself for action will pay off. Lionel and I had also done some more work on my anxiety.

I’m dressed the part: a dark professional suit with some angular quirks so I still feel like me. I had considered my black and gold cheongsam momentarily; perhaps they’d appreciate a little cultural authenticity. But then a little voice inside my head reminded me I was going for an interview as an admin manager not a yum cha waitress.

Prepared with my spiritual fake it till I make it technique I head confidently across the road into the uni grounds. Even though I’m surrounded by lush green grass, I feel myself being swamped by a blanket of fog. It’s nothing tangible but the energy is all wrong. Oppression oozes up from the ground, presses down from the sky, squeezes in on me from the regal sandstone buildings and their mismatched neighbours. The black windows and broken venetian blinds of the ugly seventies concrete slabs make them seem as though they’re blinking sadly against the beauty of their stained-glass counterparts.

Which method of dull, grey, suffocation is worse? I wonder. The environment here or with Broomstick?

Maybe it’s just unfamiliar. I try to convince myself that my gut reaction to run is nothing more than the fear of facing the interview coming through now I’m closer.

However, things go from bad to worse when I walk into the building. A morgue would look like a nightclub in comparison. I would die in here. It’s not so much a thought as a knowing.

Scratchy writing on a post-it note stuck to the door with yellowing sticky tape tells me I’ve arrived at Room 107.

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