fuck fuck fuck

I can't do this.
I can't pull this off.
Can I?

See below, recently arrived in my inbox:

Dear Lucinda,
Thank you for your continuing interest in Arcadia Publishing and the position of Southern California acquisitions editor. I would like to invite you for an interview to be held on April 13 or the morning of April 14 with myself and publishing director Jane Elliot. We will both be flying into Los Angeles to conduct interviews, though we have not yet established exactly where they will be held. I expect that we won't be too far from LAX.
If you would like to interview with us for the position, please respond to me via email about which of the following times would be most convenient for you:
Tuesday, April 13 at 10am, 11:30am, 2pm, 3:30pm, 5pm,or 6:30pm or Wednesday, April 14 at 9am or 10:30am.
Thank you and I look forward to meeting you.
Regards,
Christine Riley
------------------------------------------------------
Christine Talbot Riley, Publisher
Arcadia Publishing
580 Howard Street, Suite 302
San Francisco, CA 94105

I'm a horrible adult. I have orange hair. How can I possibly get this job? I'm terribly irresponsible and immature. I have no business getting this position. At all.

But I want it like crazy.

Fuck. Color me in for a fucking letdown. I'm gonna walk in there, they'll exchange a horrified glance, and it'll be all over, and I'll feel more retarded than ever.

My ambitions are always at direct odds with my actual ability to achieve them. It's never that I can't perform the various functions that I feel I deserve: I'm extraordinarily intelligent and capable. It's that I have some equal and opposing sort of inertia, somehow deriving from a desire to never quite grow up.

I think it's cause I was never quite a child, and so now I am eternally fucked in an impossible race to recapture it.