Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Our Hero Returns

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.