Why You Should Hire Me

Why You Should Hire Me from Christine Borden on Vimeo.

Lyrics:

Resumes aren’t working
And cover letters don’t go too far
So here’s why you should hire me
In a song for HR

I make a mean cappuccino
I’ll always grace the dancefloor
I’ve read every single Shakespeare play
Except for, like, three or four

I know a pony from a horse
I once was in Playboy
I impersonate people really well
I’ll help you find a sex toy

This is why you should hire me
I’ve got lots of skills
(unmarketable)
But I promise I’ll do you well
Do you have a position to fill?
Do you have a position to fill?

I flirt with everyone I know
I can do Mac or PC
Je peux parler francais
But not fluently

I have a Twitter and a Tumblr
I type pretty fast
I’m not afraid to try things out
I’ll tell you about my juicy past

This is why you should hire me
I’ve got lots of skills
(unmarketable)
But I promise I’ll do you well
Do you have a position to fill?
Do you have a position to fill?
Do you have a position to fill?

 

Your Knees

A flash of knobby knees

against the darkness of the night.

White sheen, alabaster skin

striking between black and black.

A contrast, a beauty–

would this be the same

if she were darker?

Ashy brown caps,

blue ebony,

burnt caramel,

fetish in color?

Perhaps it was just the peek of flesh,

unexpected and unawares.

 

Breasts

What are breasts but flesh that valleys,

tissue and trough,

a cosine wave across a chest?

 

Future = I piss in my pants

My time at school is quickly running out, and I suppose I’m like most people in that I have no idea what I want to do. I keep telling myself that it all depends on the economy, but I don’t even know what that means. There are two possibilities for my immediate future after graduation:

1. get a Real Job

2. teach English abroad for the summer (i.e. France, Spain, Italy, or Germany)

Option #1 is perhaps more practical, but not when you’re someone fickle like me. I’m not indecisive, no–I just like a lot of things and want to do them all and flit about between one thing and the next. The following are jobs that interest me:

1. Advertising. This is the newest interest and a field in which I hope I can make some changes (i.e. make ads that aren’t sexist). The only bad part? I hate ads.

2. Writing. Well, duh. But good luck to me getting a secure, paying job.

3. Sex educator. Obviously, I have a long-standing interest in sex and already am quite knowledgeable and curious about what I don’t already know. But what exactly does a sex educator do? Lectures? Books? And how does one get employed?

4. Teacher of something. Except I hate kids. Professor, except I don’t really want to go to grad school and imerse myself in literary theory, thankyouverymuch.

5. ???

Fuck. I’m screwed.

 

Your Shoes, v.2

The sheen of your shoes caught my tired eye.
Up your pant leg, past your coat,
I saw through your wrinkles. Your eyes locked on mine,
and bulbous eyeballs swelled against their glass confines.
I lowered my gaze back to the lacquered leather.
You seemed the type to buy these shiny shoes,
one in the habit of slipping them under the hems
of young girls’ skirts, their panties in polish.
They hinted at the dirty pleasure of picking up
women like me in airport bars. You stared,
with hair slicked back and body stiff,
then dared to slip your toe next to mine.
So excuse my revelry –for some will call me clever–
when I stiletto your toe and scallop your immaculate leather.

 

we are not whores

we are so oppressed i once thought it was funny to think that it wasn’t me i was safe but then there we were crying in a room all women all staring blank faced
like when they were staring at me trying to undress trying to hit on me smack that pussy on the street at 2 a.m.  a woman has no business sitting on those concrete steps and in the dark our minds were running but we were there strength in numbers but then why did we feel so exposed to those boring eyes exposed to the night air the man who came to shake our hands only made it worse trying to be nice when he didn’t realize we are so oppressed he is the enemy we must not touch him make eye contact he is what makes us scared grab our purses clutch to our laps they called from the cars fucked with their eyes greedy with lust and power and privilege and possession what could we do but pretend that it would be over it wasn’t uncomfortable this was normal

 

Your Shoes

The sunset hitting the sheen of your shoes
in such a way caught the corner of my eye.
Up your pant leg, past your coat
and through wrinkles your eyes locked on mine.
Your eyeballs, bulbous and bulging,
swelled against their glass confines.
As I lowered my gaze back to your shoes,
the lacquered leather hinted
at the dirty pleasure of picking up
young women in airport bars.
You seemed the type to buy such shiny shoes,
one in the habit of slipping them under the hem
of young girls’ skirts, their panties in polish.
Hair slicked back and body stiff,
you stared at me all the while,
then dared to slip your toe next to mine.
Now you must excuse my revelry in this,
but I really was quite clever
when I stilettoed your toe
and scalloped your immaculate leather.

 

I…

I spit, I choke,
cough, and sputter.
I don’t know what
to say. The muse
denies her song
to me and keeps
my words at bay.
The clock runs fast;
my mind, too slow.
Sludge through a sieve,
my mind keeps thoughts
not out but in.
But the blank space
demands a scrawl
of text to fill
the void. My voice
is gone, yet still
the cursor blinks:
I I I I

 

Pussyfooting

It’s not you–
it’s me. I love you …
I’m not in love with you.
I’m commitment-phobic.
Let’s just be friends.
It was just sex.
We should see other people
(I’m gay). I need some space,
I’m too busy.
You deserve better.
There’s no more mystery,
no more romance, no more chase.
“Irreconcilable differences.”
I need to do this for myself.
I don’t do long distance.
Let’s have an open relationship.
How about another girl?
I need a break
(up).

 

War

Cut me up, stitch me closed.
Stone me for what I’ve done.
My womb is wound
I wear proudly,
as a warrior in tatters
toeing the line
between fuck and fight.