The book of Job(s)

I am an anomaly.  Not because I chose to go to private catholic college after 13 years of public education in a predominantly Jewish town.  Not because I only have one central incisor as a genetic defect.  And definitely not because I bought this shirt.

 I am an anomaly because I am grouped in as an over achiever who has currently achieved nothing.

As I sit here at my desk and blog, I can’t help but notice the incongruence between my summer and the summer of my corporate intern friends.  It is none of your business exactly what I do at my job, much like Chandler Bing, but I can tell you that I did not have to design a diverse portfolio, present anything to the board of directors or executive management, or travel.  I can also tell you that I did not get involved in the Colombian cartel.  My job responsibilities lie somewhere on that spectrum, and all I’ve achieved today was this blog post.  And I also found a quarter, so now I’m 25% of the way to a Twix bar.

Outside of this summer and my shortcomings on the ability to purchase candy bars, I am a textbook over achiever.  I serve on the executive board of my sorority and dance group, slave over homework and test scores, visit office hours frequently, and don’t sleep.  Ever. I had my eyelids cut off to prevent it, and so I could audition for the movie Gladiator.  As the days roll on, my peers update their social media and social circles with jubilant cries of full-time offers from corporate giants that make senior year obsolete on any occasion besides “dollar drink” Tuesdays, $3 Long Island Thursdays, and late night Domino’s pizza. I beg them to adopt me, for I have no such prospects for jobs in any near future.  

Help me, I’m poor.

Instead of wallowing in self pity and perceived failure, I have instead decided to become an innovator and think of my own jobs that I can promptly offer myself. 

  Here’s what I’ve come up with:

1.      Alternative Advice Column:  “Yo Rapricorn”-   Want “Dear Abby” to shut her sensitive pie hole?  Then you’ve come to the right place.  Come to my advice column, which I will title “Yo Rapricorn”.  This will combine life lessons from the street and the stern and insensitive nature of the Capricorn zodiac, presented in the flavor of the rhythm like Fat Man Scoop.  It would go something like this:

a.       Yo Rapricorn,

I’ve been really depressed lately because no one has ever asked me to a frat formal in Atlantic City.  I feel like I’m willing to be easy enough to be a good candidate.  I think I’ve demonstrated these qualities enough times at the bars for people to know that I’m down to fu…nnel a beer. How can I get there?

Sincerely,

Date Before I Graduate

                                Yo Date Before I Graduate  Pathetic Trick,

Atlantic City is for crack heads who don’t sleep in no king beds who got second-hand Keds and eat Trump’s moldy breads.  You wanna live the dream? Get out the frat scene, go nuts like Charlie Sheen, unpredictable like jelly beans.

Sincerely,

Rapricorn

2.       Olympic Commentator:  I am convinced you need not ever have participated in the sport to be considered for this job.  Rowdy Gains?  Is that your name or a questionable strip club in western Kentucky?  The only skill you need, besides Bob Costas’ Benjamin Button-like aging power, is the ability to come up with vague, unqualified, and overly obvious comments that go incognito as expert opinions.  I kid you not, Rowdy Gains at his finest on the men’s 4x100 free relay: “The Americans will need to swim their hardest and hope that the Australians are just average today.”  Actually, no the Americans were thinking of taking this race out at about 60%, with a build up to 70%, because they talked to the Australians earlier and confirmed that, yes, they were only in this to put forth an average effort.  On-field reported after Michael Phelps comes in fourth in the 400 IM: “How are you feeling about this race?”  WOW who taught that one interview skills?  Ryan Seacrest?  Please.  I think I can handle it.

3.       Barcelona Tour Guide: “And on your left is the sandwich shop I visited alone at 4 AM just before hurdling over the metro turnstiles because I forgot my card.  On your right you will see Plaza Universitat, the place I convinced my friend to be an acceptable area of public urination.  Straight ahead we will come to the beach where I was first ever offered street drugs 3 times in one night by a man of Middle-Eastern decent.  Our final stop is this Doner Kebab where we will break for lunch and questionable meat.  Thank you for joining us.”

4.       Heinz Ketchup Auditor:  I kid you not, I have a palate that can detect any imposters all over the globe.  Next time you think you’re getting Heinz, think again.  It is not with infrequency that restaurants refill the glass bottles with inferior brands such as Hunt’s or, dare I say, GENERIC BRANDS?  It’s absolutely repulsive and it is an epidemic that I have personally been a victim of from North America to Europe.  Luckily, I carry a spare stash of the good stuff with me wherever I go.  Teresa Heinz Kerry, I got your back.

So I may not have a job offer now…or tomorrow…or in a year from now.  You know who else didn’t have a job offer the summer before their senior year of college?  The McDonald brothers.  THE Burger King. Wendy.  I think we both know where my future is headed, and I’m ok with that.

Heinz Ketchup Auditor:  Bigger than Windows 7.