“You’re fresh from academia’s embrace, so what makes you think the corporate world is ready for you?” Mr. Knowitall began, a sly twinkle in his eyes.

 My nerves taut, I cleared my throat and answered. "Well, my student job taught me a lot about..."

 Ms. Sharpnose just smiled benignly, "Oh, those quaint student jobs! They’re rather like preludes, aren't they? Important, yet hardly the main performance."

 I resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. "True, but those preludes have given me great insights into..."

 Mr. Knowitall then gently interrupted, "Insights? Interesting word choice. Don’t you feel that real-world challenges might differ a little bit from... just college-level insights?"

 Struggling to retain my composure, I replied, "Absolutely, but they provide a foundation, a starting point to..."

Ms. Sharpnose now looked genuinely curious after interrupting again - “And how do you suppose these foundational experiences will transition to our setting here?”

I felt a knot of frustration and self-doubt tightening in my chest. Words failed me—three points, no, four—yet they slipped through my grasp like sand. Was this interview meant to break me down, to strip me of my confidence? Was the corporate world always so merciless? Had I somehow misstepped, or was this just the harsh reality? My previous student job interviews had been straightforward, nothing like this. But here I was, feeling small and inadequate. Choosing silence, I shifted my focus to my body language, unable to shake the sense of unease settling over me – I started moving instead.

 As I fumbled to gather my belongings, Mr. Knowitall continued, this time in a contemplative tone, "You know, it's truly eye- opening when we encounter someone so... so steadfastly anchored to their collegiate days."

 Ms. Sharpnose, adjusting her glasses and sharing a subtle glance with Mr. Knowitall, further mused, "Indeed, it's somewhat endearing. Like watching a child clutching their favorite toy on the first day of school, uncertain of the bigger playground they are entering."

I hesitated at the door, their comments echoing in my mind. Were they offering help or just poking fun? The embarrassment pinched at me. I quietly said, "Thank you," quickly exited, eager to leave yet feeling the burden of their remarks linger as I stepped out into the corridor, trying to shake off the unease and confusion that clung to me.

Outside, it felt like the city turned up the volume just to laugh at my newbie blunders. The sun was throwing down heat like it was going out of style, but the real sweat? That was courtesy of that intense interview room vibe. And about those nicknames, Mr. Knowitall and Ms. Sharpnose? Yeah, they might sound like rejects from a Disney cartoon, but trust me, they're spot-on. In the grand lineup of quirky characters I’ve met, these tags are more real than their actual names.

 That evening, I was tempted by the charm of ballroom dancing—a fresh adventure for me, straying from my usual cozy house parties. Lilly, always chasing unique experiences, had sold it to me as something glittering with potential. But post-interview fiasco, my excitement had definitely cooled off. Looks like the dance floor would have to wait

After the grind of another day, I stumbled into our flat, my heels chattering against the tiles like a Morse code message for "S.O.S". Michael, my flat mate, glanced up from his video game, a raised eyebrow asking the question his lips didn't.

"Did the world chew you up and spit you out or what?"

"It spat alright," I replied, heading to the sink. If only the day's disappointments could be scrubbed off like last night’s mascara.

Interviews,

HR Departments,

Talking,

Jobs,

Can my head think about different topics?

Dinner was a plate of mushroom risotto, as comforting as a hug from the inside out. I plopped down in front of the TV, hoping to drown my sorrows in the fickle currents of StreamScape. Halfway through some crime drama, my room started winking at me from the corner of my eye. Michael, ever the empath, gave a knowing nod as I trudged off. Once tucked away in my solitude chamber, my ears picked up the TV's muted chatter, and I found myself reaching for my phone.

Whipping through social media felt like attending a masquerade ball, everyone wearing "my life is perfect" masks. My interview faux pas suddenly felt like a wardrobe malfunction on the red carpet. I shifted gears and tapped out a few key phrases into the search bar: "Surviving job interviews", "What NOT to drop in an interview like a hot potato", and "Do all interviewers have a Masters in Sarcasm?" Tips, tales, and pity parties flooded in, as if I had opened the floodgates to the 'Land of Failed Interviews'.

 After a long day of job hunting and dance video binging, I slumped into dreamland to the soundtrack of the city. My cozy bed and I became one as I let the day's drama dissolve. But then, morning sunshine, like a spotlight, rudely interrupted my peaceful slumber. Groggily, I realized it was market day. I shimmied into my trusty old jeans and a tee that should've retired ages ago, then whipped up a smoothie that hinted at today's fresh produce. Michael, my bill splitting mate and resident coffee-addict, was already brewing his morning lifeline.

 "Going to dazzle 'em at the market today?" he teased, with a wink. "Oh, please grab me some of that basil, will ya?”

“Ja natürlich, “I responded and quickly ran.

 As I cycled to the market, Sacramento's streets stretched out wide before me. Tower Bridge was a familiar sight, its silhouette towering in the distance, and an early-bird street musician strummed a tune, the notes floating in the air like a morning greeting.

 Once I arrived at the market, my to-do list unraveled. My stall, a patchwork of colors, was a reflection of both the bounty of nature and a college student’s budgeting skills. Unrolling the canopy, setting up crates, and artfully displaying produce – every tomato, every leafy green, was placed with precision and a dash of pride. The market wasn't just about sales; it was an exchange of stories, recipes, and sometimes, life advice. My regulars would often linger, discussing the best way to sauté zucchini or the secret to creating a hearty salad.

 Surrounded by the captivating aroma of fresh strawberries and the jovial atmosphere created by my fellow growers, the mishaps from yesterday now felt almost funny. Everywhere I looked, I heard another exchange of laughter or a teasing joke, reminding me that life often has its ups and downs.

 The day's first task was always the small mountain of apples that needed sorting. I’d always pick each one up, checking for bruises or imperfections, brushing away any dirt with a cloth, and then place it into one of the three wooden bins that said: "Perfect", "Slightly Blemished", or "For Juicing".

 As I became engrossed in my apple-checking, Mrs. Henderson, one of our regulars, approached with her characteristic swagger.

 “I swear, every week you're here trying to hide the best ones from me!” she accused in jest, a smirk on her face.

 I laughed, “Well, Mrs. Henderson, I've got to keep you on your toes.” I reached for a particularly rosy specimen, “This one's just been harvested. Perfect for one of your legendary pies, I'll wager.”

 She squinted at the apple, then me, playful suspicion in her eyes. “Hmm, looks almost good enough. But remember, my pies are only as legendary as the apples that go in them. So, no skimping on quality, young lady!”

 I saluted mock-seriously, “Understood, Ma'am. Only the best for Mrs. Henderson's pies.”

 After Mrs. Henderson completed her apple transaction, I returned to my task of carefully arranging all the apples in a neat line. The work was normally tedious, but it was moments like mind with Mrs. Henderson that made it enjoyable. Given the cheerful interaction between vendors and customers, the labor was more than worth my time.

 After pocketing my day's earnings, I sauntered through Sacramento's bustling streets, letting the city’s rhythm wash over me. Then the serene moment was broken by my phone's insistence. It buzzed, it rang, and judging by the "Abigail-calling" tone, it seemed like it had been doing so for at least an eon... or maybe it was just eighteen seconds. Dread filled me, not because of the call, but because that jingle was the unofficial anthem of our 'Workout Evenings.' Abigail's fervent dedication to fitness was infectious, so under normal circumstances, I’d be gearing up to break a sweat. But today was anything but 'normal.'

 As I took a deep breath and swiped to answer the call, a borderline hysterical voice screeched from the other end,

 "HINA!!! I've been circling the cafeteria like a hawk for the last fifteen minutes. Where are you?!" Instead of embarking on the treacherous path of explanations and justifications, I opted for brutal honesty.

 "Abby, I'm bailing on today's burpees and squats," I declared.

 Then, in a voice dripping with faux tragedy, she sighed, "Fine, traitor. But don't think you're escaping me completely. Meet me downtown, later. Michael's tagging along." The deal of course sealed, I continued my leisurely stroll, wondering if the universe would throw any more curveballs my way this day.

 For two hours, I strolled around the park, my phone practically glued to my hand as I mulled over self-help articles and interview tips like a broken record. By the time the sun decided to clock out, I joined Abby and Michael for dinner. Our meal felt more like a sprint than a chill gathering as everyone seemed to have places to go and food to digest. Amidst the food marathon, Michael, ever the comedian, dished out his usual blend of self-tease and complimenting others. His specialty? Joking about his love life. But his current love, Dan, was a tough nut to crack.

Dan was a trifecta of sophistication, smarts, and sportsmanship (yeah, one of those football hotshots). Tough to make fun of someone when they're a hair's breadth away from being an action figure. But we had faith. Michael's wit was like a bloodhound, always sniffing out the laughs. And sure enough, he delivered.

"The hardest part about going out with Dan?" Michael started, his face twisting into a mock pondering look. "It's keeping up with his morning face ritual. Seriously, it's like he's prepping for surgery. I get moisturizing, but this guy's skincare regime is more complex and guarded than the secret formula of a cola brand!" Amidst our howling laughter, the nearby tables seemed divided between annoyance and amusement at our little comedy club.

 Even in the intense realm of modern skincare obsession, Michael had found his comedic gold. It was a real talent. How he could turn the mundane into something so hilariously noteworthy. I suppose in some way, it was his way of coping – finding humor even when things seemed humorless. And today, of all days, I needed that laugh more than ever. Our escapade through downtown unfurled as neon lights played across the towering monuments of corporate might.

 Looking at the buildings, I blurted out, "Ever think about how some folks up there in high-rises might just be getting paid for looking busy?"

"A what?" Michael replied, raising an eyebrow as if I'd told him I'd seen a UFO. Abby just rolled her eyes like she was watching a rerun of a show she didn't like.

"Isn't it wild?" I continued, doing my best impression of a dramatic TV host. "Some kid's working two jobs, running around like a headless chicken, earning just enough to cover rent. Then there's Mr. Big Shot, in his fancy office," I pointed straight up to emphasize, "makes a few calls, taps on Excel, and voila! He's swimming in money."

Michael just looked at me, completely baffled, while the only response from the city was a distant car horn. I could see the wheels turning in their heads, debating whether I was on to something important or just having another of my strange 'moments'.

Michael sighed, giving the towering buildings a long look. "It's not just about the surface," he mused, "Hard work doesn't always equal big bucks yes, but," After a brief pause, he switched gears, "Anyway how was bowling with Adrianna and Derrek? Was Adrianna cool?"

"She was... sympathetic about Martha's ordeal, but love's a tricky beast," I replied.

Michael snorted, "Love my ass, it’s barely been a month!" Then, circling back to our original discussion, he added, "And those execs up high? They've got their own battles. Not physical, sure, but the stress of decisions, office politics, it's a different kind of weight."

Abby, now drawn into the conversation, nodded. "It's a bit like apples and oranges."

Michael grinned, "More like comparing apple pies to orange juice. Both take effort, but they're not the same beast."

"But isn't more paycheck always better?" I challenged.

Michael, after a thoughtful silence, ventured, "Maybe it's about finding the right Formula after all."

"A Formula?" Abby giggled. "Oh, not the infamous 'formula' again!"

Michael playfully scolded her, "Okay, okay, madam, life isn't math, but maybe it borrows a formula or two from it."

His typical jest was laced with an unexpected gravity. "You see, the world doesn't come with an instruction manual for fairness, there’s no universal tutorial for fairness either" he explained, a thoughtful furrow forming on his brow. "We're left to navigate this on our own, wrestling with questions of equitable wages and what it means to be genuinely decent people. It's all about finding the right formula, discovering that elusive balance that harmonizes our personal ethics with the broader societal scales. That, my friends, is the crux of the matter."

Our eyes met, Abby's and mine, sharing a look of mutual discovery, as if we'd stumbled upon something entirely new.

Fairness,

Formula,

Balance,

Paycheck? How are these interconnected, along with success!

As the evening's conversation mellowed into the night's serenity, Abby, true to her role as my personal cheerleader, made me pledge, "Gym, no bailing out the day after tomorrow." She declared the upcoming day a "Slacking Day," a golden opportunity to delve into the world of comic books, a newfound curiosity of mine.

Yet, amidst this laid-back planning, a persistent notion lingered in my mind: the concept of 'the right formula.' This notion shadowed my thoughts, even as I pounded away on the gym's treadmill, sparking a deep internal dialogue. "How do I evolve from being merely another employee to someone wielding genuine influence, without transforming into one of those uptight, those who have lost their true selves, those execs we often criticize?"