I am trying to think of a
start-up. I keep seeing ads for Door
Dash. The models look far too healthy
and optimistic.
In trying to assemble a writing
project I discover that the characters are not 'the lost' but 'people who
lost'. Some old Pulp song lyric bubbles
up, concerning nubs who lost the plot.
I work for the state. I work with people closing in on
retirement. I work with sick old people
who should retire but won't because they can't; they must endure until the next hash mark.
I work with people who need public assistance for housing, who state
relief when a fellow co-worker volunteering at a food bank lowers the stigma on
tapping that particular albatross.
I hate my job. Encountering 'kick the can down the road' bureaucracy
and its companion creature the irreducible bottleneck wearies the soul and
inflicts a thousand tiny cuts. This is how blue minds turn red.
All the other jobs I apply for
are some brand of 'customer service'.
All I've done is customer service. How in the name of holy fuck did
this happen to me?
There's a start-up idea.
A numerical system for figuring
out how you got to where you got and the likelihood you get out of it. And the likelihood you die while trying to
gnaw your paw free from the hunter's trap.
