Old Fart, New Art

I turned 26.

Now, I am staying at this place and since I dont have a job anymore, I am lying on the couch and looking out the window and it is raining and my laundry is drying and it is quiet quiet because of the double-paned windows, though the street is busy busy.

This afternoon, I have a telephone interview with the mother of all development agencies and I am sure I wont get it, but I guess interviewing is good practice and yada yada. The job is in Washington, D.C., where I have never been, but sounds just fine to me.

The last telephone interview I had was when I was in Bangladesh and I had applied for a job in Jamaica. There was a power out and I was sweating like a dog, sitting in the dark in my underpants, smoking cigarette after cigarette and trying to sound smart.

I ended up getting the Jamaica-job in spite of the underpants and sweatiness and all the cigarettes, so this, in comparison, should be a cinch.

Um. The end.