Cover Letter

It’s gotten to the point where I’m going out with guys just to get a free meal. I usually don’t pick up if they call me after. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea and think I’m actually interested. Most don’t call though, and this is mostly because I’ve worked out how to make guys think you’re crazy, and also mostly because guys are jerks.I only resort to such lengths when I’m really hungry, but I’ve burned a lot of bridges to get to this point, and I think the male community at large is beginning to catch on.

The whole of creation has conspired against my success.What do all these attractive hipsters do for money? When they’re not playing in indie bands with names like Left Foot, Mass Trap, and Identical Robot-Brother, are they working in offices or driving trucks? I never see them work. There aren’t enough record stores and comic book shops in the world to keep even a fifth of them employed, so how do they do it? I share their interests, but not their ability to turn a dollar into three square meals. And they won’t tell me either. I’ve asked them, when I see them at parties or smoking in allies, but they just laugh and start talking about aspect ratios and craft beer. It never fails.
I don’t know where I went wrong, really. I did the whole college thing. I worked hard. I rubbed people’s elbows. Even when they expressly asked me not to, I didn’t take no for an answer. I got right in there and rubbed those damn elbows. I talked to professionals who said things like, “the market is on its way up, you watch” and “you just have to strike while the iron is hot,” which I found out later was a metaphor and wasn’t promoting actual violence against iron. I spent long summer days inside, listening to self-help books on tape and arduously taking notes on letters that stood for words that spelled a single word when combined like Voltron.. S.C.U.B.A is an example of this phenomena.

In addition, any word graph of said books on tape would see the following words stand out the most:

Power. Money. Change. Helicopter.

I tried doing everything they said, and then when it didn’t work I tried doing the opposite. Nothing. I have learned that if anyone offers you more than twenty dollars to “work from home,” it is a scam devised to steal your organs. The higher the pay, the more likely it is the job involves the risk of losing some of your dignity, or teeth. If a job offers you medical, they automatically pay you a thousand percent less than they should be paying you. And if anything seems too good to be true, that’s because it is.
I have sent out exactly eighty seven resumes in the last week, to a variety of jobs, from sing-o-gram, to dockworker, to Parisian barista, and everything in between. All have a similar list of requirements:
Looking for a recent grad with ten to twelve years of related experience. Clothing is optional but shoes are a MUST, as is experience with basic writing processors. Must have wet hair. Johnny-come-latelys need not apply. Please send a resume, cover letter, twenty five references, and an essay entitled “My Darkest Secret,” about a time when you finally listened to the voices in your head.

With them, I have attached a total of fifty eight cover letters, each personalized with charm and wit, in which I cover the intimate details of my childhood, the growing pains of my awkward teen years, all the way up to my present and pressing need to feed myself. It’s riveting stuff.

There were some that required I send a picture of myself along as well, which seems strange to me. After some debate, I sent one along of my friend Denise instead. It’s her Facebook profile picture; I just cropped out all the alcohol. They may think it’s weird that I’m sending an armless picture of myself in a cocktail dress to apply for the position of assistant editor of Newsweek, but I have to admit, I may be somewhat under qualified for that one anyway. It’s a long shot, but one thing I have going for me is the super sleuth investigative journalist skills I acquired while working for the University press. I didn’t just write editorials about the need for more light poles in some of the more “rapey” areas of campus, I also interviewed not one, but two SGA presidential candidates. I also did the Lost and Founds section, which was quite popular among a certain high-profile group of forgetful students.
I’ve been on more job interviews than I can count. I’ve found that they blend together like the later seasons of Lost. I think that honesty is the best policy whenever you go to one of these things. It’s important to be professional, to dress for the job you want, not for the homelessness that’s creeping up on you, and be honest with them. Honesty is key. Don’t just tell them what they want to hear, everyone does that.

What are you looking for from this job?
Well don’t just say “Money,” obviously. You have to dress it up a little bit.

1. My goal is to be a high earning go-getter.
2. To move out of the fuck-hole—I mean— shit-hole in which I currently reside with my friend Denise, and that dumb bitch Jessica.
3. To be just productive enough to stay under the radar..
4. To have plumbing that sends water in the correct direction.
5. To make enough money to pay for the crippling debt I’ve accrued in four years at University, which has me be on the verge of faking my own death and starting a new, debt free life as Rita Del Guillermo: Photographer, Philanthropist, and famed Spanish-American essayist. I would go from town to town writing about what I see, like Jack Kerouac, without all the speed. (Or maybe with, I haven’t made up my mind yet.)
6. To be able to buy a box of Wheat Thins without that dumb bitch Jessica eating half of them.
7. Full Medical.

I’ve gotten two call backs.
The first was to be a sports counselor at a sleepaway fat-camp for at-risk teens. The only reason I got the job was because my dilapidated pile of house is inside five minutes of the place. My first day went pretty well. As well as trying to teach several groups of depressed, disinterested, and understandably over-heated teenagers the fundamentals of field hockey could have went. The area I probably struggled most with was going back for a second day.
The second job was delivering stacks of newspapers early in the morning (or late at night, depending on your perspective,) to those street side newsboxes. That went okay for a little while. I got to drive around in my pajamas listening to Joanna Newsom’s brand of indie harp-music as loudly as I wanted to, which as it turns out was too loudly. I also got to borrow Michelle’s car, which was only perfect, because up until then I had been wondering what sex, cigarettes, and the perfume Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend, all smelled like when bottled up into an eighteen year old Toyota Camry. Fantastic. But I couldn’t complain. It was something, and something was better than nothing, anyone could tell you that.
The main problem with waking up early though, is that sometimes you don’t. I got fired after the fourth time I missed work, which I can hardly blame them for. People need their papers, and I let the people down.
I think that these jobs just didn’t motivate me enough. High risk, high reward, that’s what I need. Something that will dare me to succeed. Like investment banking or something. Or something. The main thing to know is that I will accept almost any job, all I’m asking for is a chance. But I couldn’t accept anything for less than Fifteen dollars an hour. Thank you for your consideration.

Cover Letter

Chris Hubbard

New Jersey, United States

  • Artist

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