I'm a slut.
No, not an actual slut, this isn't Belle du Jour the Sequel (and not a peep out of you, oh darling friends of mine!)
I'm a job slut. You know, that thing that unemployed people become once they've been looking for a while.
The shift at first is gradual. Last time you checked you knew what you wanted, you had a list of very specific criteria for your next job: geographical location, salary, type of work, hours, industry, benefits, the colour of the office walls, whether it matches your favourite shoes, etc.
But then you start to stray. Bit by bit. Maybe the salary slips a little. The geography drifts. You didn't mean for it to happen, you had sworn you would be faithful, but somehow. Was there something in the fruit punch? A flirtatious glance that led you astray?
And before you know it you're selling yourself to anything and anyone that will have you. From London to Zurich to the dark back alleys of Bonn (Bonn? really? what were you thinking?), you hike up your CV, show a little leg and tell them whatever they want to hear. Of course you're interested in the widgets this company make (frantic Wikipedia search to figure out what on earth they're talking about); of course you'll accept a pay cut (even below your unemployment benefits? shame on you); of course you've dreamt your whole life about - hold on, which one were you again?