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2011-06-02 - 11:16 a.m.

Chopped up a jalapeno last night, minced it, and I can still feel the heat in my fingertips. Dug my knuckles into the corners of my eyes this morning, in the shower, and now my eyes burn. The sensitive slit below the fingernails, they glow with heat. The pads on the fingertips tingle, as if a storm is coming, or just came and went.

Listened to a reading of Updike's story "A&P" on the ride in today. And now I'm researching contract language. The contrast is laughable and unbearable.

But: I have a job interview, next week, for the second-in-charge of the university's honors program. Sort of its gifted and talented program, I gather. I am taking another look at what this person does, however, and it scares me. I'm about 13 percent qualified for this job, I think. I could do it, I know, but it would be a struggle and a continuous game of bluffing. There's some office management and also I'd have to figure out how to teach a literature class or two. English 201: Introduction to the American Memoir, and then a description that goes, "The memoir, or autiobiography, once the domain of the famous, in the 20th Century became the conduit for all manner of common Americans to express something something, and in this course, we will examine," and so on. I've never taught this kind of class. Could I do it? I know I could try.

Still, part of me, I hate to admit it, just wants a blank, good-paying nothing-job that I can half-ignore while I chase these bright things that live just over there, almost within reach.

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