It’s harder to be you when you’re thinking about who you are. I find myself thinking “what would I do if I were me?” in the instance of the interview I’m nervously preparing myself for.
The record label that I’ve labeled as my dream has wrapped itself perfectly around my mind with an adhesive so strong that not even boiling water would peel it from it’s attachment.
A customer at the bar I tended last year observed his date fingering the label off her beer bottle and took the opportunity when she shuffled to the bathroom to proudly tell me “you know what that means, right? She’s sexually frustrated.” I silently feared what meant for me, for I not only neatly soaked my labels to free them from their cylindrical form, but kept them to make note of the beers I wished to remember.
I think of the jobs I’ve held, and how I wear the brands on my resume as I did those beer labels in a book. When I find the one that really sticks, I want to love that label so much that rather than tentatively agreeing to a paper trademark, I become a bottle etched with the brand and shed the layers I’ve packaged myself with prior. I want to be unfiltered and of the purest form, for this desire has been fermenting long inside me.