You sit in your car and wonder if the people sitting inside the building behind blacked out windows are looking at you, judging you, thinking something like, “what a fucking loser, sitting in his car, doing nothing."
You pretend to be engaged in important activities to help ease your anxiousness, like you’re thinking about something extremely important, or you’re looking for something you can’t find, or you’re confused about something.
The iDistraction device was invented just for this purpose, to make it look like a person has something to do when in fact they have nothing and don’t want to look like they have nothing because idleness is evil and no one wants to interact with each other any more.
And you wonder if in the olden days people generally didn’t want to have to interact with anyone and wished they had a thing that allowed them to not do so, like a newspaper, or a book, or something else to just look at and analyze and pretend is important.
And eventually technology caught up to that desire and a person said to him/herself, “hey, I should make a thing that lets me not have to interact with anyone, that makes me look like I’m doing something so I don’t look like an idiot with nothing to do but sit/stand here."
And now here we are, where our lowest priority is speaking with someone we don’t know and our highest priority is staring into the abyss of glowing unconsciousness.
You get out of your car and walk towards the entrance of the building with the blacked out windows.
You adjust your tie, look at your iDistraction device, and then away from the building and feel a million eyes trained on your every movement and you think to yourself, “don’t look fucking stupid."
But you don’t really know what not "looking fucking stupid” means, so you walk in a way that you think is “cool,” if “cool” is still a word used to describe something that isn’t stupid looking.
You walk inside the building with the blacked out windows and acknowledge how sterile and quiet and non-threatening and devoid of personality the inside is.
You walk towards the guard station, where two uniformed guards are sitting blankly staring off in the distance like they wish they were anywhere but sitting behind a desk in a uniform waiting for something to actually guard.
And you acknowledge how ordinary and sterile and devoid of personality they each are, in their own way.
Like, if their insides could be seen on the outside, you wouldn’t be able to tell the different between them.
Like, you’d be able to tell there were two of them, you think, but they would look identical.
And for a split second you wonder if your insides could be seen on the outside if you’d look any different than anyone else.
One of the guards ask, “can I help you?"
And you want to say something like, “ go fuck yourself you fucking drone,” but instead you say, “I’m here to see <censored> for an interview."
You slump your shoulders and feel the tie around your neck tightening, like you’re a good little servant about to have to beg for scraps while your master chokes you because he’s a psychopath and in power and there’s nothing you can do about it but take it.
Like, this whole process of wearing a disguise to hide your personality because it might be offensive to someone else or color their opinion of you and going to a place to sit in judgment before a jury of people who make important decisions about business and whether or not you have money rushes to the front of your mind and you think for a second about punching the stupid guard in his stupid fucking face and running out of the building and away from everything and going to live on a island somewhere you have no idea how to get there and existing on coconuts and fish and jacking off a lot, alone, for the rest of your life.
Instead, you obey the orders of the guard, “she’ll be down in a few minutes, take a seat,” and feel all the emotions The System wants you to feel in order to experience the hierarchy of power of which you are just a lowly pawn.
You sit down and wait, and scroll.
The lady comes down a flight of stairs and says, “hello, <censored>, I’m <censored>."
You shake her hand and she leads you back up the flight of stairs to a room without windows occupied by two gray haired boys with blank expressions on their face.
And you acknowledge how sterile and quiet and devoid of personality each of these boys (judges) are and wonder if you pulled out your penis and jacked off on their faces if they’d be capable of expressing any emotions other than complete apathy.
You shake each of their hands and settle in for a series of questions aimed at figuring out if you’re the type of person they could control easily, and tell what to do without question, and generally not cause them any problems, because boys don’t like problems.
You answer as robotically as possible, because personality is not allowed in this environment.
Any sense of individuality is like a dagger in the heart of any opportunity to get a job that pays money that you need to buy stuff like cars and boats and shoes and sugary beverages and other things.
But inside, you scream at yourself for being a willing participant in this sadistic game of judge and be judged and pretend like we’re all robots who get along and have no thoughts other than, “what is my next task, master."
The interview finishes and the boys shake your hand and say, “thank you,” and you say, “thank you,” and you walk out of the building, figuratively clutching your asshole in shame because you just allowed a couple of gray haired boys to rape you with a fifteen inch penis that isn’t even theirs, without lube.
And you strip off your disguise and get in your car and shut the door and scream at the world for being the way it is, knowing that you are a willing participant that is doing nothing to change it.
Then you put your car in motion and return to the rail.