Please Give Me This Horrible Soul-Sucking Job


I am absolutely flattered that your company has invited me over to meet the entire staff for my third interview, even though being in this stifling office makes me want to gouge my eyes out. I love the unnecessarily complicated lobby sign-in situation and the confusing elevator buttons that spell out STABME if you read them upside down, which I feel like I did because I had five shots of tequila before I got here.

I don’t know what I did to make it this far in the process with my nearly excruciating level of disinterest in this position. The only reason I’m here is because there are no jobs out there. Starbucks didn’t email me back. Target didn’t want me. I’m too out of shape to be a stripper. Apparently a B.A. in human biology is only applicable to the real world if you’re going to use it to pursue further education like a medical degree or a masters in creating expensive hemorrhoid cream or if you want to live with the gorillas like an interesting person who uses lemon wedges as deodorant. I can’t go live with the capuchins in Central America. When a white person gathers up their belongings and goes off to a random country to look at nature, it’s science; when I do it, it’s Trump making America great again.

I’m quickly noticing that I’m the youngest and brownest person here, by the way. It makes me feel exotic like Sofia Vergara, if Sofia Vergara was made into one of those Sweeney Todd meat pies. I can already tell that Melissa from payroll is going to hate me because her cardigan is a neutral color and she clearly owns that blue minivan in the garage with the “Speak English!” bumper sticker. Also my boobs are better than hers.

Why the fuck is this kitchen so tiny? I mean, it’s nice that you guys have a fridge in here and one bag of chips, but Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like I’m in the Secret Annex. And this bathroom? It’s like Guantanamo Bay and a BDSM dungeon had a baby and that baby is a drab shade of beige. I know for a fact that one-ply toilet paper violates the Eighth Amendment.

I love the fluorescent lighting; it makes me feel like I’m back in my anatomy cadaver lab. Everyone in here is dead and old as well, and it smells funny. It looks like I’m going to have to sleep with one of these people to bring excitement into the office and make me feel alive again. I kind of want to get a Jim and Pam thing going, but I want to help destroy a marriage while I do it. It’ll be most dramatic if the guy’s wife is expecting a baby or is sick and then I get knocked up with his maybe baby (it’s either his or my high school gym teacher’s or just gastrointestinal inflammation from the kabob joint across the street). It’s too bad every guy in here already had a vasectomy when Clinton was president.

Is it time to go already? It was so nice meeting all of you and figuring out who I want to psychologically torture while I’m here. This went well, don’t you think? Did I mention how excited I am that this company puts everyone on the track to promotion, even though I feel that the only right track working here is the one I’ll lay on so a train can hit me?

Please hire me. I’ll blow you. I’ll wash your car. I’ll go to your band’s show at that coffee shop with the B health rating. I need money to pay off my student loans and to apply for my masters in any goddamn field that isn’t this one, and to buy expensive makeup for myself and sweaters for my dog. Please, give me this awful, depressing, soul-sucking, mind-bogglingly boring job.

Published on The Huffington Post.

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