As I sat with other interviewees in the waiting room, I tried to quiet my anxiety with visualization. I visualized myself floating up and up – up past a rooftop billboard that said “Your message here,” up past clouds sailing before the wind like a fleet of Spanish treasure ships, up past an abandoned god who, having had to pawn his pants, was now forced by an overwhelming sense of modesty to remain in bed under a blanket. Not five minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He just shook his ugly, oversized head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and only acquire it by dint of long effort.