(The following was written after watching Sin City 2 and I may have been slightly influenced by it)
My eyes linger over every word. I eat them up like a cute puppy with a Dental stick. Over and Over I read it, searching for the clues, the answers, the EVERYTHING. I may not know much in this God forsaken life but I know a job description is the holy bible of jobs and I’m too long in the tooth to mess this one up. It’s got everything. 22 grand a year, holidays, a pension plan. That’s not something to be laughed at and I ain’t giggling no more.
I read through the description over and over again searching for clues. I may not know much in life but experience has taught me, this is where I will find the answers. If I could just break their God damn code, God dammit. I might just make it through to a job interview. The precious interview which now seems as elusive as an actual job. I re-read, I make notes, I draw diagrams , I compare and contrast and align my experience with what they want. Then I finally feel ready to conquer the 8 page application. I start off nice and easy, no sense in stressing me out this early on: Name, address, Phone number so far so good. I begin to feel at ease. I can do this I’m an individual with average intelligence and a knack for witty dialogue. I can fill in an application form. But just as I’m beginning to get cocky I come to the work experience section. I know this is what they really want. This is the money shot. Fuck this up lady and you’re going nowhere faster than an x-factor winner after Christmas.
I start trawling through old curriculum vitae’s for lingo that might make me sound good when that fails I turn to the expansive internet to fill the gabs. I re-read the job description over and over and OVER again and use a thesaurus to reword what their asking for. I mean I’m sure nobody’s ever thought of doing that before. This is my DiVinici code. Here lies the secret to a successful life and I will crack it. Three days later I finish the work experience section, I’m a little tired and worse for wear and have spent the past two nights waking up abruptly, sweating and mumbling job jargon. I think the end is in sight then I turn the page and find a whole section for ‘why I think I’m suitable for this position’ which they’ve kindly informed me is how they’ll decide who gets an interview. I feel a throbbing headache coming back and wonder if it’s this hard to get into Yale because in all the movies I’ve seen it usually involves a less than intelligent person giving them a sob story which greatly moves the professors. I consider writing one of these for my application.
Dear Sir or Madam, I haven’t gone impulse shopping in five years and while most people would learn a valuable lesson on the uselessness of consumerism, all its taught me is how much I want stuff. I want stupid stuff and pretty stuff and expensive stuff and stuff I don’t need. And stuff I do need but most of all I don’t want to have to spend forty five minutes in Primark trying to choose between three pairs of €15 boots because I desperately want all three but will probably only wear one and actually can’t really afford any of them. So please give me a job so I can release the consumer monster within. I promise to arrive promptly, work hard and look stylish and funky for all occasions.