I WAS interviewed for a freelance writing position and Betty, the editor-cum-examiner, asked me about my personality type.
“You tell me,” I said. This was after I made it clear that my hobbies include contemplating world domination by figuring a way to launch a nuclear missile from a suitcase and that I’m more impressed with perfectly sculpted toenails than a world-class vagina.
She gave me a pie-eating grin and—in the same manner one might wonder if in my life I’ve been to a dentist or received an ass shot or if I have ever taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator—a short quiz that figures which of the 16 personality types you possess.
“What personality is my boy Jesus?” I asked, whereupon she made me sit the exam on the spot.
The test revealed that I’m a Logician (INTP—Introverted, iNtuitive, Thinking, Perceiving), a.k.a The Thinker. Betty asked how I identified with the result. She prompted me on to the description and I answered the way I might after reading my horoscope: “This is so me!” (Curious, I went down to other personalities and read their descriptions. “They’re also so me!”)
Would the results have been altered if the test included the following questions:
- “What do you do with a few foot pound of extra energy after work?”
- “Is violence a choice or just a momentary loss of muscular coordination?”
- “Do you own up to the deed or come up with a watertight alibi?”
- “Would you rather have your partner spit or swallow?”
- “A daisy or a dandelion?” “Islay or Speyside?” “Stirred or shaken?”
- “Is God a starfish or an alien?”
They would count, wouldn’t they?
I’m an INTP, the same personality as that of Einstein and Keanu Reeves’s character in The Matrix. So?
Betty said it has nothing to do with anybody’s writing career. The nut said they just wanted to know, which I took to mean as a code for “Bitch, we’re just making sure,” or “I’m sorry, your application is fubar.”
I mean, do my results call for a precaution that I put my hands where Betty could see them? Should I doubt my mental stability? Do they recommend that I take radical measures to drive the psychosis out?
I tried to recall if earlier in the interview I did something off. Did I sit properly? Was I remorseless in my comment that Betty’s accent was a sham (because it’s true)? Would the situation have been better if, say, I didn’t roll up my sleeves and wore the tie my mom said I should wear to impress a client?
I was deploring over such unfortunate happenstance when Betty revealed that they were trying to assess if, writer or not, I was actually crazy enough to be part of their league.
“We hire crazy people here,” she said. “Are you?”
I said, “That I didn’t know of,” but her magazine is the only place my byline wants to be and I couldn’t afford to lose it and that, while we’re at it, I was itching to make mincemeat of her idea of a Christmas tree brain and point out that she should get out of my way because she’s “a useless wanker f——g cunt.” “You w—e.”
I cringed a little at my forwardness—she didn’t look pleased—and in no time at all I was out before she could even summon her imps to make sure I wouldn’t make it alive.
Turned out, they’re not as crazy enough.
