This week, a company I have been wanting to work for rejected my job application for a corporate communications position.
Twice.
I got the first generic letter in my Inbox on Tuesday and the second of the very same arrived a day later.
Seriously?
I think I can make a case for my hiring.
I just found out that this is my 100th post. I am elated, for this is a stellar achievement.
So stellar, that I can now justify the boatload of money I spent yesterday on makeup and skincare products from Sephora.
Retroactive rewards: Justify anything today!
Because this is my blog, and I can post whatever I want on it, I am going to bitch about a handful of my co-workers who relish in their martyrdom. Better yet, I’m just going to write them a message they’ll never read.
Because, well, it’s therapy.
Here’s the thing, you jerk-offs: I can see right through your act. Your job just isn’t that difficult. Frankly, your job is menial and sucky, much like mine. And I’ll tell you what your job entails. It’s about uninspiring, unproductive, unnecessary meetings, conference calls and e-mails — e-mails sent to you because that’s what sly corporate drones do; they hit “Forward.”
But here’s the thing, really: Stop being an effing martyr. It makes me want to punch you in the face. If you’re up to your ears in assignments, ask for help. If you are hungry, eat. If you need a break, take it. If you are tired, go home. And if you are sick, don’t you dare bring your infected ass to work. Your dedication will not earn you gold stars, it will earn you boos, scowls and hisses … by me.
So, oh yes, the thing: This company will not crumble without you, because — get this — you are not one of its pillars; you are one of its minions. So don’t expect me to stop and offer sympathy as you work from 7:30 a.m. to 7 p.m. every day. The only reason I will stop is to remind you that you’re a moron.”
I can’t get the word “capricious” out of my head. It’s been up there jogging around for at least two weeks now — haunting, nagging, luring.
Damn it.
This worries me.
I’m no fan of impulsivity, inconsistency or whimsy; those characteristics… they vex me. I am careful, orderly, thoughtful, as Capricorns generally are, and I’ve stayed within these bounds for a long time. Comfortably. Successfully.
But impulses are stirring within, impulses that may have always been a part of me but have been unrecognizable because of years of method. Much like the word “caprice,” which has always been a part of “Capricorn.”
To every lovesick woman who believes she can fix her broken man:
You will fail.
Trust me.
Now save yourself.
