The cursor blinks at me like an impatient foot tap. Backspace, backspace, backspace. The open tabs in my browser taunt me: "10 Buzzwords to Boost Your Personal Brand," "Stand Out While Fitting In," "Personal Branding: A Millennial's Guide to Self-Loathing."
"Passionate go-getter with a proven track record of—" I gag before I can finish the thought.
"I can smell your existential dread from here," Russell says, popping his head over the cubicle wall.
"What gave it away?"
"The distinct sound of forehead meeting keyboard. Repeatedly."
He materializes at my desk, coffee mug in hand. Today's inspirational quote: "To thine own self be true."
"Shakespeare?" I guess.
"Close. Instagram."
I groan, gesturing at my screen. "I'm supposed to 'establish my personal brand' before presenting to the shareholders next week. Apparently, competence alone doesn't cut it these days."
Russell leans in, non chaletly lip reading my draft. "'Synergy advocate'? Really?"
"I threw up in my mouth a little while typing that."
"Do you want to sound like a walking corporate cliché or like an actual human being named Kara?"
"Option C: posting a pic of my cat in a tiny business suit and calling it a day."
Russell chuckles, settling into the chair I fashioned from a throw pillow and a filing cabinet. "You know, this whole 'branding' craze reminds me of something..."
I raise an eyebrow. "If this is going to be another spiel about a dead philosopher living in a barrel—"
"Virginia Woolf, a writer, actually. And her housing situation was slightly more comfortable than a barrel, slightly."
"Still probably better than this fluorescent hellscape." I wave a hand at my pitiful attempt at cubicle decor: a half-dead succulent and a 'Hang in There' kitten poster that I may have borrowed from the break room.
"Anyway," Russell continues, "Woolf was all about bucking convention and expectation. She said she'd rather go on 'adventuring, changing, opening [her] mind and [her] eyes', finding her dimensions, refusing to be stamped and stereotyped"
I let that percolate for a moment. "So, you're saying I should rebel against the corporate machine by, what, writing a personal brand manifesto filled with beat poetry and obscure literary references?"
"I'm saying maybe there's something to this idea of staying true to yourself, even—especially—when it means diverging from the pre-packaged persona the world expects you to adopt."
I turn back to my computer, fingers hovering over the keys. Highlight, delete, fresh start:
"Chronic overthinker with a knack for spreadsheets. Celebrating 3 weeks of successful office plant parenting (a personal best). Fueled by caffeine and conversations that don't include the word 'synergy.' Has been described as exceptionally curious "
Russell skims over my shoulder. "Now that sounds like the Kara I know."
"It also sounds like a great way to tank my career prospects."
"Does it? Or does it make you sound like a person colleagues might actually enjoy working with?"
My computer dings. The CEO's assistant, requesting a pre-presentation meeting. Of course.
"If I send this, they're going to think I've lost it." My finger twitches over the delete key.
"Or they might just remember you."
I scan the words again—honest, messy, distinctly off-brand. "Screw it. If they can't handle a little authenticity, that's on them."
Russell claps me on the shoulder as he stands. "Attagirl. And remember, if anyone gives you grief, just quote another great philosopher—"
"Please don't say Nietzsche."
"Taylor Swift, actually. 'Haters gonna hate.'"
He dodges the stress ball I lob at his head, chuckling as he ambles off. I take one more look at my little manifesto before tacking on a final line:
"Warning: May contain traces of authenticity"
And for the first time today, I hit send without immediately regretting all my life choices.
Well, most of them.
Small potatoes.
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