I am using the Power of My Mind to send messages to the producers of Paradise Hotel. My brilliant idea? The losing couple should be shot into space. Oh, let it be Dave. Must. Kill. Nerds.
Today I had to write a cover letter. That is sooo hard. The best thing I came up with was this:
“I can’t help but notice that your office is just next door to my current office building and on the 5th floor. I work on the 5th floor too! This makes me a natural choice for this position. Also, the Starbucks on the corner already knows my order, which facillitates maximum coffee break efficiency.”
And there are other dilemmas of course. Word doc, PDF, or elbow macaroni? If I make a shrine-like box out of popsicle sticks to enclose the scroll, do I still need to laminate a photo of myself? Couldn’t hurt, after all, I am attractive.
No, a subtle approach *is* better. I will probably just spray paint the box silver. I want to save something for the interview after all, and I have the most fetching sweater.
The annoying thing is that I’m not even unemployed yet. But the writing is on the wall in eight foot tall letters due to a summer of layoffs and about half an hour of billable time in the past two weeks. Having been through one particularly disasterous company implosion two years ago, I am taking no chances. That company still owes me (and other unfortunate souls) about 6 months of 401k contributions that were sucked out of my paycheck and never plonked into the account. Not to mention 3 weeks of final pay. Plus I got my Social Security statement the other day, and apparently they think I only made $17k in 2001. Ha. I think I spent that much on shoes. And, er, charitable contributions. Other people also had the same problem with under-reported income, so now we’re thinking the management (“pigfuckers”) may have also diverted SS contributions. The fun never stops, and all the agencies you’d think would help out, such as the Attorney General’s office and the Department of Labor, seem to have their thumbs solidly lodged in their collective hindparts. I am thisclose to writing a “help me Hank!” letter to Hank Phillipi Ryan, the local consumer adovcate news harpy. At the very least it would be amusing to see the dynamic ex-mgmt. duo shoo cameras away from their van down by the river.
But I’m not bitter!