Proper reactions

What should one do when, sitting in an interview, a slow stream of snot begins to drip out of your interviewee's nostril? I mean seriously, what does one do? Ignore it? Pretend it's not happening? Surely this person knows it's happening to them. Why wouldn't (s)he do something about it? I wouldn't mind if they took a break from asking me asinine questions like "How do you take criticism?" or "What part of this job might be challenging for you?" Oh, I dunno, maybe the part where I stare blankly at a computer screen all day wishing I was anywhere else? Or maybe the part where I'm forced to make perfunctory small talk with my co-workers and colleagues? Or maybe the part before the job is even given to me, when I have to muster all my willpower to not look at the mucous slowly creeping out of your nose. Good God, I don't want to enter the working world.

Today my roommate and dear friend told me I was, and I quote, "gross." I'm not sure how to take that, but barring any further explanation, I'm going to take it as a complement. All I said was that I had fish eggs all over my hands. I mean, that's what roe is. So sue me. A better way to describe my candor would be as the character Alceste does in Moliere's The Misanthrope:

"I have the fault of being a little more sincere than is proper."

I prefer it anyway.

I've been having disturbing dreams lately. Night before last I dreamed I was carjacked and tasered. I actually remember what the taser felt like. I kept driving while it was happening.
Other terrifying dreams as of late: entire family dying in a fire; the arrival of an impending nuclear holocaust and subsequent radiation poisoning. So that's weird.

I tried to burn the house down tonight for the fourth time since moving in in August. This time I decided to leave a piece of paper on top of my space heater. Last time it was an undergarment. The first and second times I almost burned down the house were not my fault. Well, not entirely. The second time I left the gas stove on for quite some time, sans food or pan. But the first time was by far the most exciting. Olivia and I were showered with sparks from the malfunctioning dryer: she dove to the floor while I was barricaded in the bathroom with nothing between me and safety but a wall of blue, red, and orange flares. This fireworks show, along with our screams, lasted for a good 10 seconds. And then it happened again a few minutes later. And then again just as our landlord was saying, "oh, see here it was just this--" a;t(*&^&%#$&*&()*)*(%$#$#@ *spewing flames*@#$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$#@!.

Man I'm gonna miss living here.
Whoa, upon googling "spark," I found an artist named Laurel Sparks. Sweet. Teardrop Explodes pictured above.