Note: This is a true story and details my trip to Twitter headquarters on March 4, 2009. Please be aware that details MAY have been a little bit exaggerated for the sake of drama.

Fumbling through the laundry I haven’t yet put away and the clothes piled on my chair, I’m looking for the outfit that says, “Hey, I’m hip, but I’m also hardworking. Hire me.” Yesterday, I seemed to have had eighteen outfits that relayed that message to the world. Today, the score is 0-1. I’m losing. I’ve been awake for an hour and already my day is stamped in red ink: FAIL.

Finally, after three changes, I find the outfit I want to wear. It’s a true purple dress with black leggings, a long black boyfriend cardigan and some knee-high cognac brown boots. Rejoicing, I strut out into the hallway to show off just how fabulous I am to my brother and his girlfriend. To which they both look at me and say, “Uh, do you have black boots?” My attempt at mismatch fashion has failed. Black boots it is, even though I think these boots look circa-1982. Whatever. I have an outfit.

The reason for my franticness is this: I want a job at company in San Francisco. Company is very busy. Company doesn’t know who I am. I was given advice by someone that is unconventionally brilliant to bring in cookies to the company and introduce myself. Thought that idea was irreverent and adorable, so I decided to take the advice. Let’s proceed.

However, this day is already a disaster and commuting into San Francisco to drop in on a company without warning just seems like the dumbest idea, like today I want to climb Mt. Everest, but I’m out of shape, so great, I’m going to die. That bad of an idea.

But I’ve told more than just my mom that I’m going to be all brave and out-of-the-box-like with my job search, so I’ll feel like a fraud if I don’t go. I can’t back down because there are people who don’t take excuses depending on me to be courageous. God, I had to pick today to make a statement.

Once I’m ready, which feels like a feat in of itself, I run out the door. The fresh air hits my face and I feel momentarily okay about going into the city, optimistic even, confident barely. I climb into my car, key into the ignition and turn. Click, click, click. Dead. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, UNIVERSE. Really? I mean, REALLY!?

My car doesn’t start. So now I’m laughing. Out loud. In my car. Alone.

But now I’m determined, so I snatch up my brother’s keys and as I’m reversing, I narrow my eyes and stare down my car, while mouthing to it in the most disdainful voice I can muster, “Car, I will deal with you later.” For now, my car gets a damn time out.

I think that tomorrow I’ll take up Yoga. Or Buddhism. Like, I’ll need something to lower my blood pressure, so I better start preparing now. It’s that bad.

Fast forward to getting off the train, grabbing a mocha that tasted like chocolate milk with bad coffee in it, and then walking towards the company’s building. But, as I’m walking, my dress is blowing in the wind, so I’m balancing coffee cup, purse that isn’t staying on shoulder, and dress that is trying to pull a Marilyn Monroe, but not in the sexy way she does it, but in the, “seriously, you wore a dress on a blustery San Francisco day?” way.

I’m walking against the wind, not with it, which seems like a bigger metaphor today than I’m willing to ponder.

I go into Whole Foods to buy cookies, but I can’t buy already packaged ones (i.e.: the cheap ones) because that will look lazy and ridiculous, so I have to buy the cookies that are freshly baked and 99 cents each. Twelve cookies breaks my bank. I’m spending money to get a job. Catch frickin’ 22.

As I get to the front door, I become surprisingly nervous because I’m going to feel like a fool and they’ll probably make fun of me once I leave and I want to turn back and eat the cookies by myself while I cry.

But, I’m braver than that (or crazy, who knows), so I push the button for the buzzer.

The woman who answers the door is frazzled and is obviously busy, but I just want to say to her, “You have NO idea what it took to get me here. I’ve come this far. TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER, NOW!” But all I say is, “Can’t I just speak with her for a minute?” That works, thankfully. Because I had other ideas in mind if that slightly desperate begging didn’t convince her. And those ideas were a) more desperate and b) more frantic.

The hiring manager comes out. I introduce myself. She seems caught off guard that I’ve dropped in on her without an appointment probably looking like I just came from the local psych ward. Not to mention, I’m holding a bag of cookies. Why did I think this was a good idea?

The position I want is filled. Wait, what? No. Can’t be! But, I came all this way. With treats.

(Cue to me tearing hair out of head, hating life, needing to teleport home)

She tells me she’ll keep me in mind for another position if one opens up. Then, she gives me her email address, which I now feel like is the golden pot at the end of a really dark rainbow. I wanted to slink away without giving her the cookies (felt pretty stupid at this point), but I thought that would be pretty cowardly, so I hand her the bag and say, “Oh, I brought you all cookies.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she tells me as she takes the bag, obviously feeling as awkward as this situation is.

Then, after the brief, maybe, MAYBE, five minute exchange, I leave. The day from hell accumulated to a five minute discussion for a position that wasn’t even available. As I walked out of the building, I had the choice to cry or laugh. I laughed. I walked the ten city blocks back to the BART station and chuckled to myself (obviously proving that I am not brave after all, but crazy).

Finally, I got to the station and the only running dialogue going through my head was, “Damn, I want a cookie.”