It Bugs When…

A recent comment got me thinking (and it was good, I agree). I can’t stand it when people think you’re involuntarily employed for a REASON. I don’t quite understand how someone would think someone else is unemployed by choice. In the recent interviews i’ve had, the question often comes up, because it has been a year (dear god) since I was actually paid for any work I did. I wish I knew why i’m not getting jobs, so as to explain to the recruiters/hr reps/secretaries who don’t even care, that I’m unemployed because I haven’t been hired by anyone yet….I mean, doesn’t that make SENSE?

I’ve abandoned this thing lately because I have found “work” although it does nothing for my pocketbook, only my brain. There are worse things in life, I suppose, but in this American society, a job is nothing unless it is attached to a 401k (which you’ll never be able to touch cause it will be dried up by the time you’re ready to use it), a salary (all of which will be spent on clothes
and transportation to and from said job, and perhaps a company car (which is micromanaged, meaning you have to record the mileage and not use it for “recreational” “non company” use)…these are all things, for some crazy reason, I’m drooling for. A job to me is perhaps like a giant croissant stuffed with chocolate and dripping with butter. It looks soo good, and the first bite is like heaven, but if you eat one every day you’ll probably have a heart attack. You can stop eating croissants if you want to, but once you have a job, its tough to get your “freee timeeee” back (the kind everyone is so jealous of me for having). Everyone says the same thing “oh, enjoy this time in your life, you’ll never have it again.” HOW does one enjoy being shackled by unemployment, a lack of income, and subsequent social outcast?

Here are some links to a few good job searching/networking sites

jobfox.com
linkedin.com
craigslist.com

bah

A CEO in Bum’s Clothing

I have always been one to surprise the hell out of people. According to prophecy, haha from what I’m told, at 6 months of age I started talking, in full sentences. By 10 months I was walking. The weird part is that I never crawled, or tried, I just got up one day and walked. Sometimes I really don’t believe the B.S stories of my baby genius as told by my parents, then there are times when I remember…..

8 years old, backyard of my house, I refused to learn how to ride my bike with training wheels. I sat and stared at the bike for a few hours, then pried the wheels off, and rode around the patio, trainer free.

9 years old. I had been aching to play an instrument for some time…I used to play “violin” which I made out of two rulers, and I took it damn seriously. I remember getting up in front of my classroom at age 6 with my rulerin (ruler violin..humor me) and playing Vivaldi, concerto in A minor …I just rubbed the rulers together, and the music was in my head, but three years later I got my hands on a violin, and I’ve been somewhat, more or less, in phases, not so terribly yet very addicted, in a love-hate relationship with the thing, ever since.

20 years old. I have been addicted to the thought of publishing something for most of my life. One spring, I told a friend of mine that I had plans to finally publish and editorial in our university’s paper. He informed me that he wanted to publish an editorial about the very same topic and that I shouldn’t bother. I had no idea where the paper’s office was, or who to talk to, but an hour later the article was finished, and by Thursday of that week, I had published it. We are still on speaking terms.

I’m the type of person that prepares for things in silence, almost, solitude…I can mentally prepare for any physical psychological or emotional demand mentally….I envision myself conquering the feat before I am presented with it. Maybe this is why I don’t have a job yet. I’m still in the mental preparation mode. If this is the case, in keeping with the legacy of my greatness, from walking, to speaking, playing violin, or riding my bike, I assume I’ll be appointed CEO of Sun Microsystems or Editor in Chief of the NY Times any day now. Ah, yes, delirium is setting in, hard.

The Wrath of Mommy Dearest Pales In Comparison

This is what happens when I get turned down for remedial b.s. jobs

I applied for a PART TIME retail sales position

The “accountabilities and requirements” for the position are as follows:

-Greeting all walk-in customers promptly and delivering “friendly and attentive service”
-Understanding your merchandise – the features, advantages and benefits
-Remaining current and knowledgeable on register systems
-Maintaining your own “area of pride” (i.e., portion of the selling floor for which you are responsible for keeping clean and “shoppable”

-Outgoing personality
-Comfortable in a fast paced sales environment
-Complete flexiblity with schedule (will vary dependent upon need)
-Prior shoe sales experience preferred.
-A natural finesse to assist multiple clients at the same time

What it really means:

When someone comes in, say hi, ask what they need, get the damn comission, find the shoes in the stock room, know how to ring ‘em up. Show up the next day and do it all over again.

I have:

-Previous experience in retail sales, including shoes

-A degree from the #1 Public University in the world

-Experience in finance, sales, marketing, public relations etc

I’m sharp as a damn tack and (as this is MEN’s SHOES) as a woman, I can make sales faster than you can blink your eye.

You might be wondering, ok…then why the hell look for a retail sales job ….because…the job market is terrible. Thanks to el presidente arbusto.

The following is the communication between myself and the hiring rep

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for submitting your applicant profile for the position of Sales Associate-Men’s Shoes, Part Time: *****(Location)**** with (rhymes with) Loomingdale’s.

Although your qualifications are impressive, and we would like to consider all applicant profiles submitted for employment, our needs limit our selections. Therefore, at this time we will not be moving forward with your candidacy for the position of Sales Associate-Men’s Shoes, Part Time: San Francisco. We will keep your information in our active database and consider you if an appropriate opportunity becomes available.
Sincerely,
Mikey

Loomingdale’s Human Resources

My response is as follows, and remains un-answered. (just sent it in 5 min ago)

Mikey, (an aside, his name makes me wanna say “he likes it!”)
Thank you for your polite e-mail. Might I ask, which qualifications (aside from previous shoe sales at Loomingdale’s) do I lack, which would make me a less than desirable candidate for this position? I feel, in general, that my skills in other areas (professional and scholastic) have more than prepared me for a career in retail sales. I was rather confident when applying for this entry-level, part-time position, that my qualifications matched your needs, according to the standards listed. I would be available on-call, I have extensive experience in accommodating many different personality types (something which is a great asset in retail sales), my personality is not only outgoing, but warm and responsive to the needs of different individuals. Aside from these abilities, I am most sure that I would be able to carry out the task of greeting customers, making progressive sales and maintaining a client database, as well as using a cash register. Please be in touch should you re-consider.

Best,

Lucy

Odds n Ends

It has been a slow day. No new interviews, so I must turn to my memory for creative fodder.

Annoying Things an Interviewer Can Do

Bob head up and down in response to EVERYTHING I say and repeat “mm, yes, uhuh, great, uh huh, mm yess, uhuh, oh yeaaaaa.”

“Soooooo um, (taps pencil), do you like, do you perform well in (crashing car in the background) OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, um, (re-gains some paranoid sense of composure), do you perform well in strenuous (flinching), strenuous situations? Heh.”

Bug their eyes out and crane their neck, as if they’re hanging on to my every last breath.

Make weird facial expressions, as if they are ultimately displeased or confused.

Odd and Possibly Illegal Questions

“So, what have you been doing for an entire year? Anything?

“traveling.” End of story.

“With who? Did you party it up ?”(tilts hand back as if holding an imaginary cup and swivels head around to mimic the motion of a drunk and horny frat boy)

“My mother.” End of story.

“Oh MAN that must have sucked.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Where else have you been applying for jobs?”

“Oh, similar places, pr firms etc.”
“No, I mean, what are their names?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Why are you so naive?”

“Are you a social smoker? We like to hang out here after work, everyone is young, so its cool”

“How close are you willing to get with co-workers?”

“Do you always dress like this? We have a very relaxed atmosphere here as you can see” (Men and women, drenched with explicit tattoos are running around in wife beaters and ripped jeans)

Conversations with Receptionists:

“Hey girl, come on and sit down, fill out this paperwork.”

She has her hair in a prom style up-do, although it is 7 in the MORNING. I didn’t know anyone could have that much pep, let alone apply that much HAIRSPRAY at 7 IN THE MORNING. I can hear her, and her bright red flojo style acrylic nails, clicking away on the computer. Probably chatting.

I see a picture of a dog on her desk. I’ve read that its good to be nice to the receptionist so I say “What a sweet dog.” Oh shit, what just happened? Her face lit up like a Christmas light, shes, no, NOOOOOO she’s going to open up to me. NOoooooooo. Before I can book it out of there:

“OH girl let me tell you, it’s my dog, but my boyfriend cheated on me, and I kicked him out, but he took her, he took my wookie poookie mookie wookie. He TOOOk her. I don’t know what to do. He pissed me off so I told him straight up, you’re off my myspace, and my facebook, we are so over buddy.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m filling out paperwork at the front desk and ask the receptionist for help. What a stupid idea.
“Excuse me, I don’t have a tax id number, I’m not self employed, nor am I currently employed”
“Oh just put your information in, its ok”
“Well that’s the thing, I don’t have any”
Looks up at me like a confused cocker spaniel
“umm, let me..” Phone rings (bet she’s wiping her brow)
“Hahhahaha yeah he was so hot, tell him to come tonight”
I re-seat myself
17 minutes later
“Oh, um, do you still need help?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hi I’m here to see Michelle Linkley.
“Oh, okay.” She turns to her desk and pounds away at the computer.
Awkward silence ensues
“Well, while I’m waiting do you mind if I use the restroom?”
“Oh sure!” blinks eyelids furiously fast.
…I stand waiting for her to tell me where it is…
She doesn’t, so I look for myself. I come back two minutes later: “Excuse me, might I have the key for the restroom?”
“Oh, sureee. Oh sorry, but you should have asked!” At this point I want to take my folder and smack her in the face.
2:10 pm. It is ten minutes past when I am supposed to meet with Ms. Linkley. She comes downstairs and is going to leave for lunch because her 2:00pm isn’t there. I AM her 2:00 but the receptionist didn’t tell her I was there when I came in and said “HI I’M HERE TO
SEE MICHELLE LINKLEY.”

You should always just say YES to water. It will keep the front desk monkeys off your back.

“Sit here, Marcus will be out in a minute to get you. In the meantime would you like any water?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine but thank you”

“are you sure? Water, tea, juice? We have juice..we have diet coke. Do you want an apple?”
She pulls a banana out of her purse

“no I’m fine but thank you so much”

5 minutes later

“Marcus is running a bit late, is there anything I can get you?”

I want to tell her NO, and the reason why is because I don’t want to have to pee once I get into the interview.

“Thank you but I’m really fine”

45 minutes later
I’m parched as a camel. I could have walked to niagra falls and back…I finally decide to take her up on the water offer. I drink an entire bottle in two seconds flat. Three seconds later Marcus comes out. Midway through the interview, I have to pee.
DAMN IT

Tomorrow I’ll Be a Barrista

If I woke up this morning with a migraine, fell out of bed on my nose, and sliced my tongue open on a can of dog food, it would have been a better day. Instead, I went to the temp staffing office. BAD IDEA. A deaf mute without opposable thumbs could have done a better job greeting people than this receptionist. I enter, feeling quite nice, clad in heels, a black knit dress and trench. All of a sudden I felt like the world was crushing me under its smelly big toe. WHAT HELL HOLE had I just walked into? Hopeless uneducated folk were strewn about the gum smeared furniture while “account executives,” nothing more than high school grads, sat at cubicles with headsets on, negotiating time sheets. I am well aware that very professional and very effective staffing agencies exist, however, it just so happens that I found the ONE agency that possessed, behind its dirty doors, the most vacuous of worker bees.

I reluctantly sat on one of the stained chairs and filled out sheets of paperwork, alternately stamped “required” and “voluntary.” Only two sheets were voluntary, that took about 30 seconds. I was then instructed to sit in front of a computer and wear a set of very dirty, greasy, ear wax riddled, vintage headphones and watch a movie about office protocol and safety. Unlike the other diligent losers to my left and right, I twirled my hair on my index finger while staring out the window, feet propped up on the desk. Daydreaming can be so much fun when you’re not “supposed” to be doing it. Twenty-five minutes later I was instructed to take an “EXAM!.” Thirty-nine multiple-choice questions. Twenty-five seconds later I was finished, and the woman next to me was re-taking it for the THIRD time. Below is a representation of one multiple-choice question. I was not allowed to have a camera or cell phone during the exam, so I scribbled it down as similarly as possible.

Background: In the instructional video, we are told that under NO circumstances are we allowed to drive a company vehicle (like a truck or boss’ car) to run errands. It is not our job to do so, and are explicitly told to DECLINE all instruction to do so, no matter what.

Question:
An employer at the new job site asks you to take his or her car to pick up coffee for the rest of the office, you:

a) Tell them you are not allowed to do so and politely decline.
b) Ask what kind of car they drive (if they drive a nice car, hey, why not?).
c) Tell them you will but not to tell your supervisor because you’ll get in trouble.
d) Scream and run out of the office, maybe taking a stapler on your way out.

Other questions were meant to test our organizational skill and required us to “file” virtual “papers” alphabetically.

She failed…..THREE TIMES

I made my way out of the exam room and back to the front reception area where I started writing, scribbling, HARSHLY scratching notes into my file folder.
9:30 am: Still waiting, man across from me is drooling, SOMEONE SHOOT ME IN THE ACHILLIES.
9:32 am: Hm, the coffee shop (see previous posts) would be a step up. I feel like screaming and running out of here, perhaps taking the stapler on my way out.
9:33 am: These pens suck
9:37 am: I feel like I’m cheating…like the high school honors student who skips out on AP classes and goes to the “regular” ones
9:40 am: I want to stab myself in the jugular with this pen
9:42 am: Zapata said: “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.” Right on man. I’d rather die unemployed than stay here any longer.
9:44 am: She failed, again.
9:45 am: LUCY, LEAVE
9:50 am: I have no balls, didn’t leave yet
10:15 am: FINALLY someone comes to get me for the final “interview.”

The only place this girl was educated was bar tending school. “HIIIIIIIII LU Loos LUCEYYY? LU LUCEY LUCY, did I get that right? A h HA ha ha, come on in!”

I wonder if she could tell that I was NOT having a good time. She shuffles back to her cube while I strut my stuff, close in tow.

We sit and chat about my career goals, I’m told to take a typing test. I look down and notice that she was wearing open toed sandal heels, perhaps in order to show off her black glittery nail polish. It is chipping off of her left toe. I leave.

Statistics Don’t Lie, And They Don’t Help Either

Today I reminisce on my days as a stupid, infantile, easygoing, student. In school, especially elementary school, it was almost a baptismal right of passage for the brown nosing pupils to begin their essays with a “definition.” In keeping with tradition, and unable to part with my nostalgic feelings at the moment, let me commence thusly:
Wikipedia defines unemployment as: “the condition of not having a job.” Wow, I always thought unemployment could be the root of my many “conditions” but I did not know it was a condition in itself. (I mean that in the most sarcastic of terms).

“Lacking a job often means lacking social contact with fellow employees, a purpose for many hours of the day, lack of self-esteem, mental stress and illness, and of course, the inability to pay bills and to purchase both necessities and luxuries.” Um, check, check, check, and check.

It has been stipulated that spikes in unemployment are also directly related to an increase in suicide and crime rates (US research only). If this is the case, is a mental health professional or police department responsible for helping the unemployed find work? ☺ hah I wish.

According to the US Bureau of Labor statistics there are more unemployed men than women. 3.8% vs 4.0% (In Jordan these numbers are staggering: 18% women and 82% men!). This does not come as a cataclysmic surprise, as women are more aware of their physical prowess, and are most apt to use it to their advantage. Although, I can say, from personal experience, this hasn’t worked for me yet.

OH I KNOW WHY, because everyone I have ever interviewed with was either gay or another equally intimidating woman. Gay men can appreciate a good-looking woman, but hell would freeze over before they’d ever be intimidated by one. Lucky boys.

Some things to keep all you jobless sulkers entertained. Heheh.

Oh god, wow, really?
leave it to the US to create PAMPHLETS about unemployment instead of creating ways to solve it.

Crack up! It’s like a social networking site for the unemployed. Your place to commiserate on the web.

Mundane Monday

Mondayyyy. The day when I see if my weekend resume firing-off has, well, paid off. Sweet succotash. I have an interview at a temp agency! There is a God. At this point I don’t care what kind of job I get. I should walk in there with a sign that says “just want scrilla” because that is all I really care about anymore. Money. Things. PAYING FOR THINGS with MY money, lots of it. Copious amounts of it. CASHH. MOOLA. Reading over the “instructions” for my interview tomorrow I cannot help but laugh. Not just giggle, I’m talking about a full on, just got tickled between the toes, might pee, belly laugh. “This is your first impression, bring your passport and come dressed in the proper interview attire. A nice blouse or suit outfit is a great way to impress the interviewer. Bring a paper with things that will help the agency find the best job for you, a resume is the obvious choice. While you are here you will watch a safety video and complete a quiz.” Safety video? Do I get to work with hazardous, incendiary, perhaps accidentally inhalable substances? Yes, inhalable is a word. If you don’t believe me then check it out yourself.

Thank goodness for those instructions. If it wasn’t for that handly little leaflet I just might have marched in there tomorrow wearing boxer shorts with my tooth brush hanging out of my mouth.

Here is a little something I discovered on youtube. The subject: what else, unemployment

WWT

Writing while tipsy: An experiment for the disastrously unemployed

I cannot sttabliieze my head…and obviously can’t spell. I didn’t even finish my frink (amaretto sour). It is father’s day and the kiddies have gone home, the few lingering family members are out back talking about me and my joblessness….here and trhere. Or something like that. Everytime I walk outside: DEAD frickin SILENCE. “Oh honey we were just taling about you hehehe” (Yeah for real they were). My eyeballs feel fat and my nose is itchy. My face feels slightly numb and tingly. I feel all fuzzy and warm inside. I want to go for a bike ride but I think that counts as DUI. Right?

Sip, sippy sip, sip, sip, stop, stop! No, Don’t stop. Yes, Stop. Sip. Not stopping.
mmmmmmmm. lip smacking, pucker and amarreto. Outside they’re tlakning about all the jobs they’ve held. Yeahwell in my previous life I wasn’t a jobless looser, okeay? I had a job I just can’t remember what it was at this moment. If I had a JOB to look forward to going to tomowwor, I’d be sober as a goose. Sober, as, a, goose? IS that making cents? I’d be sober, and perhaps getting ready for bed. Oh sweet liquor. You don’t wash my worries and sorrows away, you just make me really incoherent. One more sip, if I can find my glass, my hand is fumbling around dmy desk, its dark. I can t get up to open the light or I’ll trip. Then everyone will know that I had a drink and why I drank. Cause I’m jobless, and I’m a loser babyyy.

There are maraschino cherry stems allover the place.
someone give me a pension fund.
and a company car?

I’m (just not) a Regular McCarthy

Although I am lucky enough not to hope for free toothpaste samples via mail, I am not beyond day-dreaming that in the not so distant future, I will be gainfully employed. Everyone who is hip to my situation thinks I have a perfect life. I live at home where I am monetarily and emotionally taken care of, I’m responsible for myself, no children, no silly job to weigh me down. Yeah all of you people can shut up. If one more person says “I wish I were in your position” I’m going to hunt them down, call their boss, have them fired and TAKE their job.

Don’t believe me? It would go a little something like this:
“Excuse me Mr. Anderson, I think Jimmy has been pilfering paper clips from the supplies closet. By pilfering I mean having sex with, and by paper clips, I mean your wife.”

The following is a (long and drawn out) testament to my FEAR of applying for jobs at places like the coffee house down the street.

My very first job out of college

My hairstylist gave my name to some woman who wanted a Henna Tattoo artist for her bridal party. I make my way to her house at around 7 pm and find that the woman is actually a girl I went to high school with. She is getting married, getting ON with her life, and I’m her henna tattoo artist. The typical “oh my god nice to see you (but not really cause I never knew you or talked to you but you seemed nice)” ensues. We make our way to the backyard where the rest of the bridal party awaits their tattouage. There, I am confronted with several disturbing things. LOTS of women, all of whom want the most elaborate of designs to adorn the most asinine of body parts (elbows, eye lids, ear lobes). Wanna be “arabic” food abounds and is consumed en masse by the slovenly maid-zillas. In my culture, henna is popular amongst the bridal parties as well, but we dip our pinkies in the dye and call it a night. On with the party! No, no no, no, no, just NO. Bridesmaid-zilla numero uno requests a QUAIL on her left leg which then connects to a “cross” on her ankle, making a loop around her big toe, and finally ending on the sole of her foot with a big peace sign. But who cares about henna when the BELLY DANCERS (who showed up an hour later) don’t even have belly buttons..And!!!! I still to this day hold their sexual classification in question. That, dear readers, is as true as the sky is blue. Now, I’m beginning work on bridesmaid-zilla umpteen and it is getting dark. I’ve been there, kneeling on the grass under their makeshift Moroccan style hut smearing paste on legs, arms, pinkies and toes, for FOUR hours. Finally when I’m done, I get shafted 50 bucks and don’t get the rest of the money for 6 months.

My Very Second Job Out of College
While working at a hair salon, for a week. Conversations with annoying women, take one.

Balls
“Good Afternoon Andrew’s Salon, This is Lucy speaking, how may I help you?”

“Oh well hello! This is mrs. Dicherbraun, well formerly dr. dicherbraun, I was an obgyn you know. Well now, I had to stop 10 years ago when I fell and I broke my hip. Well my hip is bothering me, and that is why I’m calling actually. Are you there?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dicherbraun”

“Oh you know who I am? What is your name? How did you know it was me? I used to be a doctor. Anyhow my hip is acting up and I was wondering if you could look out the window and tell me if it is raining. I’m sitting in my lazy-boy and I just don’t want to get up to look out the window. I can, I would I mean, but I just got new shades and they are so heavy, I don’t like to move them by myself. I have an appointment with Andrew this afternoon. He is supposed to set my hair, but I don’t want to get my hair set if it’s raining, or even drizzling. I mean, I could, and it has nothing to do with my hair, but I just don’t like when my tennis balls get wet. Then the carpet gets dirty and I just don’t have time to deal with that. Anyhow, if it is raining, I’m not coming in for my appointment. Can you check? Is it raining? Drizzling even? Is it? Where did you go? Did you put the phone down?”

Blankly staring out the window the entire time

“Tennis Balls? Dr. D..”(interrupted)

“Oh ha ha yes the tennis balls, they are on the bottom of my walker. You see, I don’t really need it but my son told me I should use it, so I do. I put tennis balls on the bottom so it doesn’t make that annoying screeeeching sound when I walk. I hate annoying sounds don’t you?”

“Yes.”
“Oh, by the way, about the weather Dr. Dicherbraun…It’s pouring.”

Click.

Conversations with annoying women, take two

To most “Americans” I don’t look white. To most people from my “home country” I look incredibly white-washed. Apparently, while sitting behind the reception desk at a hair salon, I look Mexican. At least this is what the bitch told me. “Se hablaaaaaas essspangollllaaa? Heehehe.”
“Excuse me?” I reply in a flat, uninterested, yet VERY pissed off tone. “Oh, OOOOOOh, I thought you would speak Mexican or something.” In that instant I wanted to say: “No bitch, first of all, the word you’re looking for is SPANISH, the LANGUAGE, and even then, more than one ethnic grouping uses that language.” She wouldn’t have understood, and I would have gotten the boot, so I just politely replied “NO” and ignored her for the rest of the day.

My Balls my Balls, Who wants to taste my balls?

I love this man, but every Christmas season he gets a bug up his butt about his balls. Meatballs. I was temping as a receptionist during his Christmas buffet week and the biggest part of my job was not re-arranging client appointments or answering phone calls, it was warming up his (meat) balls. They were the frozen kind, came in a pack of 60 from Costco, drenched in KC Masterpiece. I never tasted them, but from what the women told me, Andrew’s balls were, well, yummy.

Femme Blaspheme

Oh, oh dear God. I think the apocalypse is coming. My mother, my flesh and blood, has turned on me today. If I wasn’t so woozy I’d scream until my throat hurt and tell her what a horrible and most blasphemous thing she just said. As I think back on the exact moment I experience it in slow motion. Her voice is thick and clumsy and the words start to spray out of her mouth like poison drenched daggers. My eyes sting, as if I’m staring into a can of hot fishy-scented garbage. I was mentally begging her to close her mouth; even envisioning myself running up to her face, physically shutting her mouth, perhaps by stuffing it with a muffin. Before I could act, she blurted (with a huge grin and “pep” in her voice) ….”Honey, the coffee shop down the street is accepting applications for barristas!!” EXCUSE ME? I hate to be the stuck up (not so) recent graduate, I really do, but I can’t help but notice the huge difference in mental capacity between myself and a ******* barista down the street. I wanted to roll up in the fetal position, kick my feet all over the place and scream like a baby who lost their pacifier.

I would rather:
-fall asleep in the blazing hot sun without a coating of sun-block.
-get dreadlocks
-eat butter dipped in crisco then fried in pig fat
-floss with used floss
-drink a 40 of vodka mixed with rum
-run the NYC marathon in 6 inch heels

I just replied to about 20 more job postings. If I don’t hear back by Tuesday, i’m marching into that coffee shop and demanding that they hire me.

Disclaimer:
Mom, I love you. Let me make you some tea, after I clean the house and finish cooking dinner.