This year is different

This year, my suit will be my clean face.

I'm trying to be something I'm not again this year: successful.
No, I'm really in one of the middle stages of applying to be an RA for my university. It's tiringly exciting, I know.

Last year, though, this was big. I made this whole plan where I would have no technical debt and I would work for the UN gratis and I would, I'm unsure of this detail exactly, but play bass in U2. It's fuzzy.
All of that hinged on getting the RA job and getting free housing. I don't know how it worked, but it did,

or in my case, it didn't.

I went into the first interview (of six) on my birthday in a full suit and really missed my mark. I was sweating. They, two of them, asked me my name and I stuttered out one of their names. My eyes were bloodshot and I said I'd never been to an interview. It was a bad scene.

I'm a lot less stressed this year. I have more on my plate. Bigger things afoot. I'm confident that I'll do well. I've thought of the answers to common questions and I'm prepared, but that does in no way mean that I won't screw it up.

I was trying to shave off my Grizzly Adams beard for the interview, but my electric razor doesn't have a half-stop mode. It's all or nothing. And it's all, for me. I started shaving and realized I couldn't stop.

I would find it hard to hire me. I look like a child with long hair and a distinct musk. I should probably wear over-sized dress pants and look like I'm playing dress-up. I'll walk in and introduce myself as a prodigy or something.

"I'm sorry, that was a joke."
"Mmmhmm," and they'll scribble an x next to self-deprecation.

Maybe I should tell them that I only had clothes that matched my ambitions.
How many bad jokes can I tell? Too many. I should swear while I walk to the building, to get it out of my system, like Edward R. Murrow did.

Something.

I'm confident, though. I'll get through this. I need to master these professional techniques before I'm harassed by more looming opportunities. Yeah, That's the attitude!

Boston was beautiful. I went last weekend. The sealine was overwhelming. It was a real harbor with real harbor folk. That's all it was. I really like harbor folk, though. They love great indie music and have suits that match their ambitions.

Sometimes I blog when I'm doing other things like leaving messages on the phone or writing journals about immigration for class. Sometimes I blog when I eat. I take note of the food, metareference it and laugh.

Life is draining, isn't it?

I wouldn't like me if I met me

I'm so many things that I've sworn against.

If I saw me I would let myself have it. The long hair, the fitting funny-colored pants, the thick glasses, obscure music, studying obscure languages.

I can't even pretend to be disheveled and pretend I don't care anymore. This simulation is reality.
I might as well apply to work at Stumptown and practice frowning.

I'm in a new place. I have never looked in the mirror and really understood the person on the other end (to be me). I look now and slouch and laugh at what I've become. I'd love to judge the mirror for its faults and ignorance but I am the person on the other side. I can't give up being myself.

A strange amount of people think I'm better off looking like a college student / resident Christ impersonator. I don't know how to deal with that. Mostly, I ignore it. I look how I look right now out of compassion, arrogance and laziness. That concoction has led me thus far.

Speaking of Christ, I've decided that I have no interest in holding the mantle of a prophet. I was told by several reputable sources (those that tapped into the God-divine [read tarot]) that I am a prophet.

Maybe I'll become more of a prophet if I humble myself now and say that I don't want to be. It worked for Paul Atreides, I'm sure.

I think I might just make this a soapbox and complain about the ills of society, the thetanic ills.
Thetan...

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/02/14/110214fa_fact_wright?currentPage=1

I love a good romance novel, or I imagine I would if I was in to that sort of thing.