A sense of timing is the mark of genius...

A sense of irony is the mark of over-education.

I was informed today that I "didn't have quite enough experience" to qualify for an unpaid internship with a (for the sake of any potential future career) here unnamed production company. Likely because when asked to provide sample coverage on a script I later learned they particularly enjoyed, I employed such words as "amateur," "one-dimensional," "mundane," and "physically difficult to get through." This all in the first paragraph, by the way.

But I suppose the Rumination of the Night revolves not so much around differing ideologies, but rather the fact that I'm pretty sure I didn't get the job because the "Head of Development" (read: gets a sweet business card, but still has to dash out of the office whenever the boss requires a cinnamon dolce latte from Starbucks) with whom I interviewed could detect my aversion to him.

And the thing is, I don't know why I felt it. I've made a conscious effort over the past few months to become a better person. I've even started going to effing yoga classes at the gym to get in touch with whatever it is yoga is supposed to get you in touch with (the tao/inner peace/thick-eyebrowed Persian housewives). Yet, despite my efforts, I still find myself constantly judging others like...well, I could make a Simon Cowell reference here, but then I'd have to hunt down a rubber band, a baggie of ice, and a sharp knife.

So, back to this HOD, who shall remain anonymous (Hint 1: his first name is the same as my roommate's. Hint 2: his last name sounds like Endicott. Hint 3: okay, his last name is Endicott). I'm sitting there, trying to b.s. my way into his thinking that all I've ever wanted to do with my life is answer phones and make sure the filing cabinets are properly alphabetized, but I can't stop staring at his pastel brown shirt, his carefully selected thrift-store tie, his large forehead flanked by spindly blonde hair, and his hands folded like he's just waiting for Wes-friggin'-Anderson to cast him in “Rushmore II: Max’s Revenge,” thinking that if it came down to making this month's rent or paying God to have the lighting fixture come crashing down on this guy’s head, I would gladly sacrifice my credit record.

Perhaps the saddest thing is that I think I actually do know why I spent the whole time judging him, but it took writing this to figure it out. Which is that in an email exchange the night before, he jokingly suggested I call him "Captain, O' My Captain." Now, an expert on modern American Poetry I did not expect him to be; however, anybody who's seen "Dead Poets Society" should be well aware not only of Whitman's panegyric to our suicidal closet-case of a sixteenth president, but also of the correct phrasing of his poem, courtesy of Robin Williams in a role second only to his eponymous lead in "Patch Adams."

So, in short, I didn't get a job (though I don't know if an unpaid internship in which my level of importance falls somewhere between the stapler and the magazine rack technically qualifies as a "job") because of these darned elitist tendencies I can't seem to shake.

Carpe diem, bitches.