I’m sitting in my cube thinking that I need more money and that I don’t want to eat the lentils my wife made for dinner. (They are delicious, of course, but I’m not in the mood. I want a $40 steak.) I’m wondering where the fuck my promising writing career went—seemed promising in grad school anyway. I don’t want to eat the turkey sandwich I brought for lunch either. I feel like I have to poop, but I probably won’t be able to because of the depression meds I’m on. My blood sugar is too high even though I didn’t eat any crazy shit. And mostly, I’m thinking that I’m underpaid for the fancy marketing editor job I have. Don’t they know how important grammar is? Don’t they know how important smooth, concise prose is?
Don’t I know that I’m just editing and writing for a Google algorithm? But yeah, I’m thinking about money, so I start looking for high-paying editor jobs in Dallas fucking Texas.
I find one that pays about five grand more a year than I make now. That sounds ok, though I’ll probably feel just as broke as I do now after I’ve had that job for a month. I click to apply. Of course, this isn’t one of those simple fuckers that just takes my LinkedIn info. It does, however, take the shit from my resume and put it in all the wrong boxes. I look around to see if my boss is behind me and start filling in my info.
I went to school. I got a master’s degree in English. I went to high school. Why the fuck are they asking me about high school? I fill in my previous employment info, leaving out a shitty job that I sorta got fired from; it wasn’t related to writing or editing anyway, and fuck those people in the ass with an AIDS-infested hatchet.
I put in some references, wondering why they even ask. Am I going to put someone down who will say shitty things about me? Fuck no. Basically, that question is asking if you have friends who will lie for you. I do have friends who will lie for me.
So finally, I get to the end where it asks the Equal Opportunity Employment stuff. FUCK! I’m a fucking white guy and I fucking hate these questions. Where’s my privilege now? Oh, I know, it must be mixed in with my unpaid student loan bills, or possibly my shitty credit report. Maybe I should drive around awhile and feel the privilege of not getting pulled over. That always makes me feel better.
Gender: Male, female, decline to answer.
I want to write, “Male, I guess,” but there’s not a box for “I guess.” I check the appropriate box and look down disapprovingly at me wiener.
Race: It lists the races.
I’m still not sure what the fuck non-Hispanic white is, but it’s most likely not me. I think about choosing the “two or more races” or Native American. While those may be technically true, they are pretty much true for everyone. I sadly—knowing I’m surely not getting the job after my first two answers—click the box for “non-Hispanic white.” Ugh.
Protected Veteran: Yes, no, choose not to self-identify.
Well, fuck. This one just makes me feel like shit. My dad and two of my uncles served in Vietnam, and I’ve always felt guilty about not going to war. My dad and uncles are glad I didn’t have to go to war, but the fact that I didn’t go to war still makes me feel shitty. I check the “no” box.
Disability: Yes or no.
FUCK again! Goddamnit, I’m fucking sick of this shit.
But wait, they’ve taken the time to list the disabilities that an applicant might have. I look down the list and I have three of those motherfuckers! Depression, bipolar, and diabetes. Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus for giving me depression and bipolar disorder that led to alcoholism, which then led to pancreatitis, which led to diabetes. This job is mine!
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