The recruiters spoke in clipped, precise language, discussing margins and projections, completely unaware of the social calculus grinding beneath his skin. Every handshake he offered fell short, every word he uttered ricocheted off invisible barriers. He was outside the lattice, defined by absence, a man whose Clique dictated failure.

In the interview room, the Sega 32X pulsed red on the table—a relic of misaligned passion, a sign of the lanes he could never climb. He tried to speak of value, of skill, of potential. Nothing coherent came. The silence filled the room with judgment. He was always the Loser, the one whom Cliques used to measure themselves against, eternally present, eternally peripheral.

He would wake in the trailer, alone, existing in the cracks between lanes, visible to all but embraced by none.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5779050&forum_id=2thread_id=599411#49294055)

"I don't. I want to work at the Goldman Sachs."

"OK, we don't have any other questions for you, Mr. Chang-Cohen."

"State your GMAT score before I engage you further."

"OK, I'm going to call security now."

"Just admit it: you lost this gen"

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5779050&forum_id=2thread_id=599411#49294065)