The hideous trial of job searching continues. Someone just hire me; forgo all the inane hoop-jumping, the job is shit and a fucking tin of spam could do it. I don’t need a certificate to say I can use Microsoft Office, and I know how to open a till without stealing from it. I’m more than capable of completing any menial task you care to throw me. More so I am intelligent enough to write your boring catalogues, product descriptions and how-to guides. I am resourceful and creative enough to be able to pick up any new skills necessary and implement them better than the tired old wastrel you will hire instead of me. I may even be able to improve your pointless little systems and company policies. Yes, just allow me through the doors into your precious little business, stand me behind a till or sit me before a desk and let me waste away my pathetic little life for a pittance. Toss me just enough money to make the rot that will set in my mind seem bearable for one more day. I’m fully qualified to die inside at the whim of middle managers and corporate cocksuckers. Grrrrrr.
Sigh. Job search rant hate aside and out of my system perhaps I can be a little more productive. Or perhaps I’ll find a winning lottery ticket on the bus tomorrow morning. Then get sent to prison for fraud when I try to claim the money. Or I’ll find a dream job as assistant art director at the BBC or food and travel writer for the New York Times and immediately be hired. Or I’ll become a test subject for new types of food in Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck. I’ll get a job sitting on the bench for Manchester United and the salary will be a cool million. And I’ll buy that art collection and holiday home in Japan and retire to my castle on the moon.
And now I’ve written all this and posted it on this here blog, it’s all out in the big wide world for any future employers to discover via google. Here they will discover the joyous sentiment I feel from the follicles on my head to the depths of my groin every time my thoughts dwell upon day-job prospects. Oh how sincere they will find my interview lies about valuing customer care and being happy with the daily drudge of company routine, petty staff disputes and idiot customers. I was fated to wallow in endless strings of short term retail roles, but now thanks to the magic of the internet even that is out of the question.
My only recourse now is to actually get a job I enjoy. So there it is: crap job people – hire me until due time when I can stick your shitty job up your arse, and settle into the creative, expressive, important job I am due. Maybe at the BBC, maybe at Bradshaw Int. Corp., maybe at NASA futurology whatever, etcetera, etc, &c. Today I want to be a BBC researcher; tomorrow, who knows. Night night.
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