Daniella escorted me into a room with a panel of 3 stony-faced doctors sitting behind a long table. They all had notebooks, pens, and bottles of water, and there was a video camera on a tripod in the corner. The man who I suppose was the boss doctor (who looked like this guy) said to me "You are applying for a job. The position is manager of a tire store. You will be required to speak for three minutes about why you are qualified for this position. You will begin...NOW."

Oh, improv? Don't mind if I do. This was basically every audition I'd ever had, except the money from the job was already in my pocket and there was absolutely nothing at stake.

I don't remember the whole of my monologue, but I do know that it included a section wherein I had taken a correspondence course in Tire Development and then had sought additional, supplementary courses in Renaissance Rotation and Treadery. I explained how, as a child, my first word had been "tire," but before I got to school, we'd spelled it "tyre" because my parents were English. Incidentally, they were dead, and I'd used the money they'd left me to complete my certification as a tire-loving tire professional and had even opened my own tire consulting business, which had done so well that I sold it and retired, but got bored in my retirement and longed for the tire world once more, so when I saw this ad in the paper I just KNEW it was a sign, this job was for me, and me alone.

"Time," said Daniella, who was running a stopwatch in the corner.

"Tire time," I said meaningfully, turning to her. "Tire time."

The middle doctor was as stoic as ever but the lady doctor had lost it somewhere around the part where I told her that tire prioritization had been the undoing of many of my relationships, but that didn't matter. Not to me, and not to Tires. The other man doctor had teared up when I started demonstrating my Talent routine from that time I was in that beauty pageant- I rotated tires, all sexy-like, and to music. I'm not saying I was that amusing- it was probably more frightening to him than anything else- but I was glomming on to any sort of reaction I could get, because that was the only way I could imagine making it through this.

Middle doctor cleared his throat and said "Your next task will be to count down backwards from 1022 in increments of 13. Every time you mess up, you must begin again at 1022. Go."

Well, I'll just let you all imagine how this went. I had to start over four times.

Then the whole thing was done and I got to leave, cash in pocket and holes in butt.

You all were very patient while I kept accidentally writing other things and not writing about this. But I decided it was all for the best that I took so freaking long- now I can report that it has been a full year since this happened and my booty is no worse for it. You can't even tell where the holes were.

There's probably a point at which I should stop putting information of this ilk about myself on the internet, but I really haven't found it yet. And when I do, you can rest assured it will be a total shitshow, I'm sure.