In fact, don’t pay me at all.
I’m feeling salty. I sent my resume in for a job I would *literally* die for, except then I wouldn’t be able to go to work.
It’s a boutique marketing firm a la Emily in Paris. Très chic. Except this one is in Ohio.
I know. I know. Who even lives in Ohio? Anyway.
Obvi, they asked for my resume. I know I wrote my professional history on a napkin somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. So I had to start from scratch. It didn’t take that long, since I’ve only had one job in my life.
These dicks. They had the nerve to email me back and say that “unfortunately,” the two weeks I spent as a bagger at Walmart make me “unqualified” for the “position.”
Well. Fuck you very much.
I don’t, for one second, believe it’s due to a lack of experience, but due to an excess of vagina.
I have standards. I have morals. So I straightened my beret, wiped off the cream cheese that accidentally got on my glasses during breakfast, and told them I would take whatever position they’d offer.
My email bounced back. They’re a marketing firm and they can’t even send an email? I just don’t think they’re ready for what I bring to the table.
C’est la vie.