Curses
Well, that just about beats it. Getting told that you are too enthusiastic about a job you are going for seems like a really great reason not to get it. I can't see why my interviewers would think that, I didn't offer to clean their houses, babysit their kids or even sleep in the office. In hindsight, maybe clinging to that older guy's leg and weeping profusely when they told me they'd finished was a bad idea.
The more astute of our readers may glean from this that I have managed to obtain an interview in my long-suffering (and yes, just about everyone within my earshot is suffering alongside me) search for meaningful employment. In fact, I've had more than one, and have bagged another for next week. The significant feedback i've gotten from both of them amounts to 'well, you came second.' There is only one solution to this.
Maybe someone could advise me on the best way to impregnate degree certificates with anthrax? Killing off all the competition is obviously the perfect strategy to secure myself a fabulous position.
That reminds me of an ex-boyfriend I dallied with in days of yore.
He rang up the week after he'd started university on the brink of tears, convinced that he was dying. Of what? you may well ask... Well, he had discovered a large (and apparently bubonic) buboe upon his sprightly chest. This, and his status as a student at one of our most elite institutions, marked him out as the target of a terrorist hit. He was dying of anthrax.
It took a while for me to convince him to go to the nurse, who informed him that no, he was not dying. He had a zit.
Anyhow, this boyfriend is now progressing up the UK Indie charts (or at least the alternative alternative charts) at a rate of knots, so I'd better not spread any scurrilous rumours, it's really not beneficial for the karma...
At least if I haven't managed to get my foot in the door of a lovely 'Save the World' style job yet, my better half is doing enough for the both of us, having just been promoted to head of his unit. Sigh. I'm so proud... ...maybe he'll employ me instead...
...I think the 'leg clinging' tactic might work a little better on him...
The more astute of our readers may glean from this that I have managed to obtain an interview in my long-suffering (and yes, just about everyone within my earshot is suffering alongside me) search for meaningful employment. In fact, I've had more than one, and have bagged another for next week. The significant feedback i've gotten from both of them amounts to 'well, you came second.' There is only one solution to this.
Maybe someone could advise me on the best way to impregnate degree certificates with anthrax? Killing off all the competition is obviously the perfect strategy to secure myself a fabulous position.
That reminds me of an ex-boyfriend I dallied with in days of yore.
He rang up the week after he'd started university on the brink of tears, convinced that he was dying. Of what? you may well ask... Well, he had discovered a large (and apparently bubonic) buboe upon his sprightly chest. This, and his status as a student at one of our most elite institutions, marked him out as the target of a terrorist hit. He was dying of anthrax.
It took a while for me to convince him to go to the nurse, who informed him that no, he was not dying. He had a zit.
Anyhow, this boyfriend is now progressing up the UK Indie charts (or at least the alternative alternative charts) at a rate of knots, so I'd better not spread any scurrilous rumours, it's really not beneficial for the karma...
At least if I haven't managed to get my foot in the door of a lovely 'Save the World' style job yet, my better half is doing enough for the both of us, having just been promoted to head of his unit. Sigh. I'm so proud... ...maybe he'll employ me instead...
...I think the 'leg clinging' tactic might work a little better on him...
posted by Red at 8:46 pm
1 Comments:
Buboes are gross. Is that the correct plural of Buboe? Buboe. Buboe. It sounds gross. Buboe. Gross.
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