The clinical trial I am about to participate in marks the perigee of my post-university tragedy. Since graduating last summer I’ve pottered from unpaid internship to dole queue, pretend freelance posting to bar job, friend’s bank account to unprincipled and masochistic hunger strike. Career-wise, I’ve had an absolute stinker. If, dear reader, you are ever unfortunate enough to reach this point, you will find that you fleece yourself (hopefully only temporarily) of serious ambition, disembark the train marked ‘vocation’ and skip over a few electric fences on your way to hopping on a freight marked ‘survival’.
Whereas an unpaid internship can instil within you a kind of futile hope – unemployment’s equivalent of the Arab Spring, like Walter Mitty wearing a turban – a clinical trial is just that: clinical, cold, an inevitable recourse with nought but raw ephemeral cash at its end. There’s no purpose to a clinical trial, not the slightest possibility of finding one’s virtù. The men in white coats, after all, do not care about you. They care about your body, your avatar, and how it reacts to TEST VACCINE FDXXR897C.