#15

I've spent the last few hours burrowing through my wardrobe trying to decide on what to wear for my big interview. I've tried everything, even a pair of frayed denim shorts and a tight pink t-shirt. Though finally I decided on classic black and white. One cannot go wrong with black and white. It's smart and stylish and professional.

Having settled on colour the following big decision was “underwear or not?” I decided not. Next up was the shirt. I went with my plain white C&A one. It was a little crumpled and the neck was slightly grubby, but no matter as it would be covered anyhow. I gave it a healthy spray of lavender air freshener, pulled it on and buttoned it up to the collar. My trousers I took straight from the wash basket. They were a little damp, a little loose, but not too bad. I slipped into them being careful not to catch my bollocks in the zip. Socks I had to do without as they've all mysteriously disappeared. For shoes I stepped into a pair of classic leather monk-straps. They were actually brand new and ignoring my naked ankles poking out each side looked pretty smart. All then that remained was the jacket. As I only own one it wasn't too difficult a choice. After a twenty minute panic I eventually found it balled up and crusty in the corner of the bedroom. At first I thought slugs had been in the room again and then I remembered I had used it to wipe up after my last wanking session... The one where I had released two weeks of built up frustration in a full 27 second climax. I unstuck the arm from the breast, picked and scratched the dried sperm off as best I could and then pulled it on tight in an attempt to straighten it out.

Ok, it could have all been better, but still it was no tragedy. I peered down at myself and I actually thought I looked pretty cool. I was up for this. I was gonna get that fucking job and turn my situation around. But then I turned around, and in the ¾ length mirror I caught a sight of my reflection and had to do a double take. Staring back at me was not Tristram Spencer, but rather some wretched bum who looked like he'd just got lucky in the morgue. I raised my left arm, then my right and watched in horror as each time he followed suit. There could be no mistake about it; I was looking at myself. I collapsed down on the bed, and in my crumpled, oversized and spunk stained clothes I started sobbing. It was my lowest point yet, and what's worse, I smelt like my grandmother's toilet.

It's now 4.43 am, the world outside is closed and I never really had a job interview anyway. All I ever wanted was a reason to forget.