The Gap has a weird crush on me.
In an unemployed act of desperation almost a year ago, I applied to The Gap hoping for a retail gig to pay my way while I waited anxiously to become an installation in the Chicago art scene with a downtown hi-rise loft and a pet ocelot named Clarence and several friends all named, and with various spellings of “Deiter”.
Since filling out the personality profile and assessing which display picture was organized and which wasn’t, and guessing if cargo shorts and khakis were cool or just douchy, I have received over a dozen invites to join various “gap teams” across the city. The most recent was a gap kids in Lincoln park. I really thought that info expired after three months or something. UNLESS, I’m some kind of secret messiah for the Gap, like some lost fashion prophet wandering the city only to be found and sacrificed to the gods of derivative marketing campaigns and uncompetitive pay.
I guess what I’m trying to say, Gap, is: thanks but, seriously, no thanks.
(in case anyone was wondering, this is me posting more regularly.)
