The trees are swaying as I am woken from a night of bliss and jack, slightly on the rocks. The decaying arbre above sways and appears to metamorphose into an array of colors and things. For a moment, my perception tells me it’s a person. For a moment, I lose consciousness and arise again, only to realize that I stand in the convening place of the dead person’s society. The graveyard is endless and somewhat intimidating. I slept the night there, but I’m not so sure I would want such an unfriendly spot for a permanent resting place. I guess I'd rather a sunny spot with rainbows and ponies. Meh, who knows. The tree is a tree again, spiders scurry up intt its dark crevices. C’mon. Is this serious? How ridiculously cliche! Spiders creeping about in a graveyard on a huge tree. Spiders which guard the tree, as I guard the gates of hell. Yes, that’s right. I guard the gate(GATES depending on the day)of hell nowadays. How? Well, that's a useless question, but, a position opened up 2 months ago and I applied with an admittedly shitty resume, and I got the gig. I started a month ago, so my job was somewhat difficult after a month’s worth of corpses piled up just waiting for the idiot willing to take this job. Why do they even want to get in the gates anyway?
The spiders are the most annoying part of this job. When I fall asleep, I can feel them crawling closer to me, as if I’m some fucking prisoner, but I’m not a fucking prisoner! Those stupid things spend their days tearing the dead to pieces over and over again, and yea, I guess that’s cool, but I’m not a fucking prisoner! I’m thinking of filing a formal complaint, but my boss isn’t the most welcoming man in the world and I don’t want to make things difficult for myself when I’m here in a few years.
One of the perks of the job is that you get to find out whether or not you’ll be going to heaven or coming to hell when you perish. You also find out how you’ll die. What they don’t tell you in the interview or before you accept the job, is that by accepting the job you agree to spend eternity there and immediately die a pain free death. The perks of the job aren’t so great. The terms of the job aren't initially clear. I'm thinking about filing a formal complaint.
A spider just ripped into my leg.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Dirt Clods
I. Dirt clods are cool—you just have to know what to do. When it rains, they become mud. Everyone likes to fling mud, unless you are afraid to get dirty. When you slide around in the mud, it is guaranteed that laughter will ensue. When it rains, you will have fun with the conglomeration of mass formerly known as a dirt clod.
II. It’s fun to rip dirt clods out of the earth. It doesn’t hurt the earth necessarily, although we can’t really say for sure. It feels as if you are pulling a potato up from the ground. Or, a mandrake from Harry Potter.
III. When the dirt clod is very dry, and you throw it, if it hits the sidewalk, lots of specks of dirt scatter about and the sound that’s created is very soothing. The initial impact itself is very nice, just to hear a body smacking the pavement. Like a squirrel falling from a tree. It’s a very comforting and definite plop that sets the soul at ease. The scattering of dirt that follows the plop is sort of similar to icing on a cake. It also reminds me of hair. The singular trajectories of dirt that fly every which way streak brown lines that add beautiful contrast—depending on the juxtaposition—to the blank, solid slab of rock beneath.
IV. Take away the rain, and just have a dirt clod fight. It’s harmless.
V. Pretend each individual dirt clod is a grenade, and as you hurl them over your neighbor’s fence, imagine they are causing irreparable damage to an enemy whose core beliefs are diametrically opposed to yours to such an extent that you are desirous of obliterating his/her flesh.
VI. I have said five things about dirt clods.
VII. If you’re of athletic stock, pretend that a dirt clod is a baseball. Pluck a clod from the sod and chuck it against your house. It will leave a small mark on the side of the house that will likely not go away. It’s a good way to rid your life of frustration, and fun to watch the marks amass.
VIII. Throw a dirt clod up in the air and let it rain down on you. If you’re brave, look up while it’s coming down. It may get in your eyes, but if you’re trying to kill time, you should have no qualms about spending a few minutes trying to get specks of dirt out of your eye sockets. It will get in your hair undoubtedly, but that’ll make a shower more interesting. It’s sort of like when there’s sand in your hair, and you’re washing it, you can feel the grainy scalp that provides the foundation for your hair; it’s a very enjoyable contrast, and always a fun task to rid your scalp of it.
IX. Throw a dirt clod at a moving car. They’ll wonder why you did it.
II. It’s fun to rip dirt clods out of the earth. It doesn’t hurt the earth necessarily, although we can’t really say for sure. It feels as if you are pulling a potato up from the ground. Or, a mandrake from Harry Potter.
III. When the dirt clod is very dry, and you throw it, if it hits the sidewalk, lots of specks of dirt scatter about and the sound that’s created is very soothing. The initial impact itself is very nice, just to hear a body smacking the pavement. Like a squirrel falling from a tree. It’s a very comforting and definite plop that sets the soul at ease. The scattering of dirt that follows the plop is sort of similar to icing on a cake. It also reminds me of hair. The singular trajectories of dirt that fly every which way streak brown lines that add beautiful contrast—depending on the juxtaposition—to the blank, solid slab of rock beneath.
IV. Take away the rain, and just have a dirt clod fight. It’s harmless.
V. Pretend each individual dirt clod is a grenade, and as you hurl them over your neighbor’s fence, imagine they are causing irreparable damage to an enemy whose core beliefs are diametrically opposed to yours to such an extent that you are desirous of obliterating his/her flesh.
VI. I have said five things about dirt clods.
VII. If you’re of athletic stock, pretend that a dirt clod is a baseball. Pluck a clod from the sod and chuck it against your house. It will leave a small mark on the side of the house that will likely not go away. It’s a good way to rid your life of frustration, and fun to watch the marks amass.
VIII. Throw a dirt clod up in the air and let it rain down on you. If you’re brave, look up while it’s coming down. It may get in your eyes, but if you’re trying to kill time, you should have no qualms about spending a few minutes trying to get specks of dirt out of your eye sockets. It will get in your hair undoubtedly, but that’ll make a shower more interesting. It’s sort of like when there’s sand in your hair, and you’re washing it, you can feel the grainy scalp that provides the foundation for your hair; it’s a very enjoyable contrast, and always a fun task to rid your scalp of it.
IX. Throw a dirt clod at a moving car. They’ll wonder why you did it.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Glimpse into the Life of a Young Corporate Recruiter, day 17
I travel from college to college to help kids move their careers further and shit. I work at the FDIC, and I’ve been here for about 2 years. Apparently I have a real congenial personality, or whatever. I’m also very attractive. I’m a good person to have as the face of your company. Kids in suits buzz around, “piss off,” I wanna say.
“Hello, my name is Kwame Eriksson, and I am a junior Economics major. I am interested in corporate finance- or, rather, the regulation of big banks, what with the recent spat of white collar crimes and whatnot. *chuckles* *blinks*”
Look at this fuckin’ guy, I think to myself.
Developing a product. He packages and pitches. Tent like backpack fingerlakes? I miss Laura, what a goddam good person. “Wha?”
“Sir?” asks the legitimately clad one asks
“Yea, right. Uh, we are an organization that deals in the regulations of banks. We are not federally funded, which means our money doesn’t come from the taxpayers. We’ve had to shut a lot of banks down as of late unfortunately, but that’s all part of the business.” I say, rote, regurgitate, Wikipedia memorization, as my eyeballs scan the room for cute ass chicks. We in Ivy League territory bitch I like dem motivated chicas…
“Very interesting! I’m actually somewhat current on the activity, whereabouts and mission of the FDIC. What I was actually sort of interested in *shuffles paper* *crinkles* is what you have in the way of internships?” Broadly smiles, this one. Little fucker. Has resume. Life on paper. Ink could be anything, assembles to form accomplishments.
“Yea, well Kwame, I heard you say you were a junior…”
“Yes.”
“Well, our internships are reserved for seniors. Those about to fuckin’ graduate this coming spring.” Says I, deadpan.
Kwame serious. I wanna ask im why. Heath Ledge rip. Fuck he gonna say?
“Uh…” crinkly paper forehead.
“You got some shit to say Kwam? I told you. You ain’t our fuckin’ type. You. Aren’t. Old. Enough.” Each word step closer to suity Kwame. Nose to nose like tet a tet what next little bag of shit?
*hearty chuckle* I have, watch Kwame shuffle away, eyes dart like me search chickie.
He run. Jesus *hah* I yawp.
I decide venture into career fair. Not standing there anymore. Rip Ledge off nametag and start the wander.
17th campus, 3 more 2 go. I’m missin’ Memphis.
“Hello, my name is Kwame Eriksson, and I am a junior Economics major. I am interested in corporate finance- or, rather, the regulation of big banks, what with the recent spat of white collar crimes and whatnot. *chuckles* *blinks*”
Look at this fuckin’ guy, I think to myself.
Developing a product. He packages and pitches. Tent like backpack fingerlakes? I miss Laura, what a goddam good person. “Wha?”
“Sir?” asks the legitimately clad one asks
“Yea, right. Uh, we are an organization that deals in the regulations of banks. We are not federally funded, which means our money doesn’t come from the taxpayers. We’ve had to shut a lot of banks down as of late unfortunately, but that’s all part of the business.” I say, rote, regurgitate, Wikipedia memorization, as my eyeballs scan the room for cute ass chicks. We in Ivy League territory bitch I like dem motivated chicas…
“Very interesting! I’m actually somewhat current on the activity, whereabouts and mission of the FDIC. What I was actually sort of interested in *shuffles paper* *crinkles* is what you have in the way of internships?” Broadly smiles, this one. Little fucker. Has resume. Life on paper. Ink could be anything, assembles to form accomplishments.
“Yea, well Kwame, I heard you say you were a junior…”
“Yes.”
“Well, our internships are reserved for seniors. Those about to fuckin’ graduate this coming spring.” Says I, deadpan.
Kwame serious. I wanna ask im why. Heath Ledge rip. Fuck he gonna say?
“Uh…” crinkly paper forehead.
“You got some shit to say Kwam? I told you. You ain’t our fuckin’ type. You. Aren’t. Old. Enough.” Each word step closer to suity Kwame. Nose to nose like tet a tet what next little bag of shit?
*hearty chuckle* I have, watch Kwame shuffle away, eyes dart like me search chickie.
He run. Jesus *hah* I yawp.
I decide venture into career fair. Not standing there anymore. Rip Ledge off nametag and start the wander.
17th campus, 3 more 2 go. I’m missin’ Memphis.
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