what does it mean to why do i keep what the fuck. chill. chill man can’t you be chill. like them. nothing. remember that time. dude that is so stupid. haha. her face. what. worried you smoke too many cigarettes. jesus why do these people listen to such bad music. where is he I need a cigarette fuck. why is she. you still got it champ. beer bongs are great. something to smoke. remember that time. i am hunter s. kerouac. this is it. fuck that. i want sex her. where is weed. hahahahaha. have to piss. you are grotesque fuck mirrors. vonnegut soul. is he coughing now on a bathroom floor. bob is crazy. this shit is crazy man. where is carl. where is she. can’t believe we’re here. fuck belief. another cigarette. outside is better. kerouac died from liver cancer. this shit is awful. stop being lame. you are good. what does it mean to why do i keep what the fuck. these people are so god damn boring. nothing. weed for everyone here. good shit man. remember that time. twenty one years old wow. how did you get here. you still haven’t started that thing. what will you do tomorrow. nothing. shit is getting out of control. no taste beer. stop staring. go talk. or was it cirrhosis. who wants a cigarette. colorless piss small dick in the cold. better cirrhosis than a shotgun to the dome. maybe not. chill. why is she and what does it mean to why do i keep. this shit is crazy. fucking this music and everyone. you’re stilling stare. is kicked that. remember time that and yes so why doesn’t this feel like it used to and why doesn’t this feel like it used to and why doesn’t this feel like it used to and why don’t you feel like you used to and why don’t you feel like you used to and why don’t you feel like you used to and why aren’t you what you used to be?
Either the birds are all dead or it’s before dawn.
Had an interview for a Peace Corps Volunteer position earlier this morning. If I get the job, I’ll be in Jamaica from March 12, 2018-May 2020 as a Primary Literacy Adviser. Like most sesquipedalian job titles, this could mean a lot of things and thus is largely meaningless. Shouts out to Wittgenstein or Russell or the bald king of France that doesn’t exist, or something.
What I know is that if I’m chosen, I’ll be working under the direction of a school’s principal to help inspire a love of reading in tots. This could mean helping the teachers teach the tots in the classroom during the schoolday. Or it could mean maintaining a reading group and tutoring tots after school. Or it could mean working with parents of tots to promote literacy education. Or it could mean all of these or none.
If I’m chosen.
The Peace Corps is moderately selective: 25,000 applicants/year competing for 4,000 spots. Rough math that’s what, 4 over 25 times 4 carry the one beep boop boop 16 percent. So but that brings me to the point of this post: the interview did not go well.
I mean look. I don’t think I’m the most charming person in the state of Texas. I definitely don’t do well in large groups of people. I shit my pants before, in the middle of, and after giving presentations. But in a one-on-one situation, when all I have to do is talk about myself (shouts out to Narcissus), I tend to do okay. Hell, I’ll go so far as to say that I think I interview well. I mean generally. I like to think I’m affable. Perceptive. Well-spoken and sincere.
This is what I like to think.
But man, this guy was colder than the coldest of witches’ tits. Whatever I was selling, he wasn’t buying. And I came prepared. Studied common questions, physically with ink pen and paper paper wrote down my answers and, extra credit: spawned a list of potential questions to ask. What I’m saying is the product was good, is what I’m saying. Maybe the shit wasn’t pearl but it wasn’t cut with nothing, neither, is what I’m saying. (Yes, I did just finish the first season of The Wire yesterday. Letcha boy live.)
It’s not like he was actively hostile, the interviewer. He was fine. It’s just the whole thing was so…scripted. He asked only questions that were on his prompt that was on his second monitor that he rarely (read: never) looked up at my red and mottled face from. I’m talking zero good old-fashioned televisual eye contact. Zero, homie.
So I had nothing to work with, nothing to go off of. It was obvious that he didn’t particularly care about me, which was fine, but the dude didn’t even pretend to. That’s what gives me a huge case of the screaming meemies about the whole thing. No pretense, no social bullshit. No feigned humanity. Nothing but the script.
I guess it comes with the job. Re: # of applicants. Dude’s probably conducting another dozen and a half interviews this week alone. Who in that situation could maintain an air of caring? Who could remain impervious to desensitization? Who would want to?
At least this is what I’m telling myself to try to make myself feel better about myself. Shouts out to the self.
I don’t expect to get the invitation, folks. Objectively speaking, odds are that the application process ends here.
But I want it. I want it more than anything. And I think I’d be really good at doing whatever vague shit a Primary Literacy Advisor does. And I told whatshisface this, albeit w/ a slightly different phraseology. Whatever–I can always reapply.
Also, tots is a great word.
Missiles. Missiles. The launch of missiles.
United States missiles. Missiles. Sixty missiles in sixty seconds missiles. Missiles. Yay missiles boo missiles—missiles. Missiles trump missiles. Missiles. Syria struck missiles Assad missiles, can you believe it US of A missiles.
Missiles. Democratic missiles. Imperial missiles. Missiles for Christ’s sake god damn it missiles.
This is the day that no lord has made.
Ah, but have you forgotten? Life contains itself in you. And fleshbag that you are, insignificant and full of shit, you are the maker. You are the lord and this is your day. So from the ribs of your own body, what will you breathe into life? In the face of chaos, what will you make?
Smile at the grocery attendant and ask the UPS deliverer how is your day going, sir? There are enough missiles. You needn’t be another.