Strange Omens
I woke up from a nap a few minutes ago during which I had an unsettling dream. I dreamt I was interviewing for a judicial internship and the judge decided his chambers would be a local bar (Floyd's on Atlantic Street, I think), for whatever reason most of my friends from school were invited.
Things looked good. I was fielding the normal questions pretty well, even when he asked how I thought my previous experience unloading trucks at a grocery store was relevant, I pulled an answer out of the sludge. At one point, the judge brought out a trumpet out from behind the bar, blew a weak, tinny note which he followed with a full blast. He said I sounded too much like the first one. That might have just been the horn from the staten island ferry --which you can hear every twenty minutes-- trying to work it's way into my dream, or it might have been some Freudian phallic thing I should have learned about in my undergrad psych class, but either way, it seems like poor interviewing etiquette.
As always, the judge said he'd move quickly, which he did. His clerk came over and said "sorry to do this in front of your friends, but we unanimously decided that we didn't want a regional accent in our chambers." I countered with something about how 1) I didn't have any kind of accent and 2) I didn't need to talk, I could just write. The second clerk replied "I've read your writing sample, and you don't have a vocabulary." Not even that I had a poor one, he said it didn't exist.
I didn't even know I had this level of self doubt/loathing, but apparently my sub-conscious is pretty clear on the issue. I'm just going to have to chalk it up to bad voodoo in the air: my pseudonym for our memo last semester was based on a Hunter S. Thompson character who, the night before our moot court brief was due, shot himself.
Things looked good. I was fielding the normal questions pretty well, even when he asked how I thought my previous experience unloading trucks at a grocery store was relevant, I pulled an answer out of the sludge. At one point, the judge brought out a trumpet out from behind the bar, blew a weak, tinny note which he followed with a full blast. He said I sounded too much like the first one. That might have just been the horn from the staten island ferry --which you can hear every twenty minutes-- trying to work it's way into my dream, or it might have been some Freudian phallic thing I should have learned about in my undergrad psych class, but either way, it seems like poor interviewing etiquette.
As always, the judge said he'd move quickly, which he did. His clerk came over and said "sorry to do this in front of your friends, but we unanimously decided that we didn't want a regional accent in our chambers." I countered with something about how 1) I didn't have any kind of accent and 2) I didn't need to talk, I could just write. The second clerk replied "I've read your writing sample, and you don't have a vocabulary." Not even that I had a poor one, he said it didn't exist.
I didn't even know I had this level of self doubt/loathing, but apparently my sub-conscious is pretty clear on the issue. I'm just going to have to chalk it up to bad voodoo in the air: my pseudonym for our memo last semester was based on a Hunter S. Thompson character who, the night before our moot court brief was due, shot himself.
posted by I Am Chadha at 4:08 PM
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