In response to this job posting.
Dear Sir or Madam:
The bandar could have killed me. I certainly wouldn’t have been their first victim. A few months beforehand they killed the vice-mayor of New Delhi in his own apartment. While he was away, they scaled the side of his building and then smashed through his balcony window. They were in the process of raiding his pantry when he got back. The bandar attacked him, and the fight ended with the vice mayor tumbling out a window and falling to his death.
In response to this job posting.
Dear Sir or Madam:
The last time I smoked pot I was on a bike ride down to Mexico. My friends and I pulled over at a gas station, and while our compadres relieved themselves, several of us snuck around back and passed a pipe between us. When we got back on the road, a deep quiet settled over our caravan. There were over a dozen of us. All cyclists. All shivering in the early January morning. We were far from the city, biking through a place with no streetlamps or mailboxes. The locals had gravel driveways and they demarcated their property with barbed wire. Sometimes we would go hours without seeing a house or a store or even a truck.
In response to this job posting.
Dear Sir or Madam:
I once went to a sex party. If you knew me, you’d understand how out-of-character that was. I’m not a very sexual person, but I sometimes think that I've got an inner manbeast just waiting to come out. So the sex party seemed like a good idea. I’d go there, see other people behaving like menbeasts and womenbeasts, and it would unleash a tide of testosterone. It would rouse some deeply buried animal lust. A few days later I’d wake up and find my chest carpeted with hair. At work I’d have trouble concentrating because all I could think about was sex. My muscles would balloon of their own accord, a transformation I’d been waiting for since middle school.