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When five of you, late 20’s, plaid-wearing, low-laughing, beer-clinking, arm-shoving guys stumbled out onto the porch, my immediate reaction was run. But then I told myself to relax. It’s a party. They just came out on the porch; it’s a nice night, this isn’t about you. But then there was the laughing, their deep dude voices getting louder and cutting through the ambiance of my music.
We also hate it when you say you want a self-starter or a self-directed crackerjack. It’s all the same imaginary word-junk. If we were self-starters, we wouldn’t be applying for these jobs with you. We’d be self-starting food carts or farms or underground music venues. We’d be mending shirts and relations with American Indians.