It’s the unfinished business of my article for Nuzegeek. Somehow I can’t rest until it’s turned in. I know I’m past deadline and still doubtful about the quality of my financial acumen or any acumen I might harbor in my self-pitying state. But after years of working for Hugh, the writer’s ethic is too deeply ingrained. I might be past deadline and it may be impossible to avoid running into Dartmoor, but I might as well get this over with. I stare at the rows of clothes in my closet and realize I have nothing to wear to a firing. Let’s face it: I’ve been swimming upstream on this job from the beginning. The question of the moment is—do I want to dress like a corporate punching bag, demure and sensitive, wearing a meek pair of flats and a high-collared blouse, or do I dress as if I don’t give a fuck? Like my leather jacket with Bowie pins, my badly destroyed boyfriend jeans, and my Doc M’s? Everyone knows you need to dress for success, but I believe you also need to dress for failure.
