I want to write a book; or film a documentary. Wasn’t there a guy a few years ago who filmed his first dates with multiple women? I can’t distinguish stories that happened from stories I made up. That’s a little problematic.

But so long as I have my dog and so long as I stay home, it doesn’t really matter where the lines are, regardless.

I want to write a book; or film a documentary. I, earnestly, get job interviews. I make a career out of being interviewed. If necessary I will make up persons and resumes. I have had something like 30 jobs. I’ve had some experience with being interviewed. I actually have some experience even interviewing people.

I don’t want to get the job, of course. I just want to be interviewed. An interview is such a weird and odd experience; where one person, a stranger, has the opportunity to evaluate another. And a person suffers a stranger to evaluate him. Yes, I think it would be more interesting if I did make up jobs and people.

But I don’t want a documentary about how to interview well. I want to interview really badly. I want to do all the things you’re not supposed to do and say all the things you’re not supposed to say.

I want to show up late. I want to chew gum. I want to light a cigarette. Right there in the middle of the interview. I’ll offer one to the interviewer and look baffled at his baffled face. I want to say “irregardless.” I want to be a perfect candidate, except that I swear a lot. When first meeting the interviewer, I want to look him up and down and say, “No, I don’t think so; is your, is your superior around? I’d like to speak with your superior.” On job applications it says “Are you or do you identify yourself with a minority race?” I want to say, “Yes, yes, I do,” and then not say which one. I want to pick my nose. I want to take all of the questions and turn them around on the interviewer. “I don’t know, what makes you think you’re the best candidate?” I want to ask if, perhaps, the company doesn’t have a better room for interviewing me. I want to dress in a fine suit with a naked girl tie. Or sneakers. I want to ask, you know, given my horrible heart problems, if I couldn’t get medical coverage right away. I want to ask if the company has an NRA club. When asked where I see myself in five years, I want to say, “Hopefully by then I’ll be your boss, eh?” I want to do the interview perfectly and then, leaving, shake his hand and say, “Mr. Big Boss Man.” Or, I want to go in and not shake his hand; and leaving, not shake his hand, especially if he offers it. When asked to describe my biggest weakness, I want to say, with a perfectly straight face, “Well, and I’m working on this, I’m so used to working at home, that I can’t get enough porn and that I’m well, a chronic masturbator.”

No. No, I don’t suppose I could get a grant to do it. But still, I think it would be hysterical.

I loathe the word multitasking. Anybody who can piss and crap at the same time can multitask. Now that I think of it, I’m not convinced I can. I’ll give it a try and see.

SS