I didn’t realize a part of BC’s restart plan involved being tired ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Only a fraction of the usual employees were recalled at my workplace, so Yann and I have both had to make ourselves totally available to work at any time.
This chaos has inadvertently led to the creation of our curio shelf:
Yesterday the dazzlingly talented Jessica Flores asked me if I had a page featuring my drawings. You see, she’s working on a website that showcases the work of deaf artists called The Deaf Artist Collective.
And she thinks I’m an artist.
!
I haven’t left the apartment in four days now, not out of fear of getting infected, but because I am infected.
I had an interview last Thursday. It was for the same job I’ve had for the past year. The exact same job. This is what the job market has come to.
In the 70s, employers had to beg for workers.
In the 80s, I don’t know, because I don’t appear to have a family member who tried to break into the job market that decade. I assume it was the same as the 70s, but with more hairspray and shoulder pads.
In the 90s, you needed a resume, but you were able to list “married” as one of your qualifications as my mom did.
In the 00s, this Millennial had an argument with her mother about whether “married” and “non-smoker” were descriptors appropriate for a resume. Jobs in the 00s required that you include a cover letter and fill out an application form, AND thank a potential employer for taking the time to even consider you.
2010? You definitely need connections.
Now that we’re at the beginning of the third decade of the millennium, we need to convince our employers to keep us on. I’m not opposed to this idea, though, as there are definitely people who have flown under the radar doing the bare minimum without making a sack-worthy misstep. I’m tired of picking up the slack. Too bad I’m only mostly sure that my employer doesn’t see me that way, which stresses me out. I should have brought snacks to the interview.
If I don’t get the job I already have, it’s because I didn’t bring donuts. No donuts, no job.
At least twice a week, some seemingly satirical character pops into the bike shop, says something hilarious, and leaves me thinking, “Oh no, this is too good to not write about on the internet. Yet, I cannot do it.”
It’s torturous being this much of a square.
Even though I generally respect people less than I did ten years ago, I show them more respect. To be fair, this is probably because so many more people been involved in my life since then.
Instead, the scandal of the week is going to have to be about my new thing, which is…
