There are three times when you are most vulnerable in your life: when you’re born, when you become a parent, and when you’re wearing clothes for a job interview.
Now granted, I can only count on one hand the amount of times I’ve had to crawl into one of these ridiculous getups. Weddings? Funerals? At least I can half-ass it and point to grief if anyone decides to give me shit for wearing hammer pants with a poncho (in tasteful black). But job interviews? Oh, no. You’re on your best behavior. You’ve got to have every advantage in your court, pretending to be a human who enjoys foreign concepts like “smiling” and abstain from constantly fidgeting with a butterfly knife when idle. You can bury some of that in your brain and let it come out after all the papers have been signed and it’s too damn late for them, but oh boy, you’d better put on that corporate monkey suit and suck that kool-aid like you’re the world’s thirstiest Dracula/American-Live-Action-Anime hybrid.
As far as I’m concerned, the attire deemed appropriate for a job interview may as well be made of glass, as I feel like a particularly overtaxed busboy with an inner-ear infection whenever I go outside in my scruffy (but laboriously preened) polo shirt. Every movement must be considered ten steps in advance, lest you suffer the wrath of an angry bird or homeless disease fountain. Weaving in and out of urban traffic like you’ve got a single piece of health and the floor is made of spikes, even the most well-meaning step can turn you into an unhireable slob (and consequently, a tarnished, permanent outcast from society). With the sense of relief felt once walking out of sight from the meeting point, it takes every fiber in my body, regardless of success or failure, not to tear the clothes from my body and run howling into the nearest bushes. I despise the weird, universally-accepted-as-unavoidable traditions of peopledom.
But that’s what it is, really: tradition. If you make up some weird garbage and harass enough people into playing along, other people will eventually stop considering how stupid it is and just accept it into fact. That kind of follows with how I think about a lot of things, as evidenced by this Internet tombstone of reasonable thought. Some stuff is just so damn weird when looked at objectively that you can barely fathom how it isn’t made up nonsense. Think about this: we came down from fucking trees and evolved to make bacon ice cream and fridge magnets. Tell me we didn’t waste our potential.
Good God, somebody teach this man how to use a fucking hyphen.