It’s a tough job, opening this here teacher’s manual and pretending I can comprehend it for hours of the day. Gotta be careful, else the other teachers might pick up that I’ve been staring blankly at lesson six-dash-four all week. Not even the most illiterate in Japanese take that long to review two pages of literature.
The journal-writing is key. The journal maintains the perceived work ethic. Pages upon pages of thoughtful, English text which is crucially illegible to the average bystander. Some might call it incriminating evidence, but I see it as passing down experience; tangible wisdom to employed by the numerous souls that follow me.
This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for: one of them office-type jobs. A job with a desk, a job with papers and pages to sign, a salary (though I don’t think I’m salaried), with obligatory out-of-work coworkers functions. A job with desk time that demands appearing busy. A working day hours longer than the actual work required. I hone the art of busywork like a finely crafted blade, I hew from the rich ore of obligation, fired from the fierce flames of social expectation.
Parasocial Nomikai 