Of Pseudonyms & Suit Ties

Unemployment, Motherfuckers

I take the train home even though I swore I'd never take it again.

Well, being unemployed, guess this'll be my last ride for a while anyway.

I sigh and stare out the windows, wondering just what to do with the rest of my afternoon and what I'll do about finding a new job.

Can't call up my main bitch, she's busy being out of the country.

Can't hit up my co-workers because we're not co-workers anymore. (Also, most of them hated me before they knew and now they all probably hate me now that they know.)

I'm never moving back. Over my dead body.

My head starts to pound and I realize I gave myself a headache. Great.

As a good way to ignore my problems (probably not, but whateveR), I set my focus on the people around me.

Journalist Skill: Eavesdrop. Engage.

Putting my headphones on, I pretend to listen to music as I casually scan the faces of my fellow passengers.

"We just got a dog last week! Mom and Dad let me name him, so I named him 'Riku' after my favorite idol in IDOLiSH7!" a little girl, too young for school, sits with an old man. "Oh, you probably don't know I7, Grandpa, but I can teach you all about them later!"

Good choice, Nanase Riku is my favorite too.

"Yeah, my boyfriend's a lying bastard and I'm taking him to court," a woman whispers conspiratorially on her phone.

Ooh, saucy~

"WHoa~ My mom made me lunch today! I'm so excited!" a college-aged boy gloats to his friend like he's back in primary.

Lucky you. My mom disowned me.

"Did you read that article I sent you from that gossip magazine, Listless?" a young woman makes light conversation with her friend, both dressed for some type of office job.

Now you've got my attention. I pretend to turn up my music.

Targets acquired. Switch to Journalist Skill: Deduct. Engage.

It's probably the redhead's first day, her shirt's been pressed to perfection and her lipstick is a lovely shade of red. She fidgets mildly in her seat and I assume she's making idle chatter with her friend to try and relax.

Her friend, brunette pixie cut (which is a really neat style, huh), looks really dead. She's got creases and coffee stains on her shirt and no makeup like the former. Her glasses slip down the bridge of her nose and her eyes are so heavily bagged, I'm afraid if she blinks again she'll fall fast asleep.

Geez, if I thought Wally was bad, her boss must be Satan ...

She responds in a tired voice, "The one by Cynthia T. Emmett?"

Although she seems totally miserable, I can't help but smile at the mention of my alias and I turn away from the pair to hide my reaction. Still, I keep listening out of curiosity.

Go on, what do you like most about me?

"Yeah! She's interesting, huh?"

"Sure, as long as she keeps her article topics to problematic celebrities. If she writes an article about Mr. Han, the phone calls would never stop."

I try not to give myself away but it's so easy to let their words flatter me. I mean, no one at Listless would ever praise my work. And well, I wouldn't exactly call this "praise", but it's close enough for me. (I'm just that desperate, Jesus Christ ... )