If job applications were honest

Dear Sir or Madam,
I want to work, and I know that I’d excel, but this is a glorified lottery;
I match all of your requested criteria, but maybe I’m just the
ƃuoɹʍ sex, or age, or I didn’t wigflip-ds in the correct order, so Brenda from Buckinghamshire was employed instead.
 

Brenda started out well enough, her bubbling enthusiasm barely containable, but inevitably the
d
r
i
p
of routine ˢᵃᵖᵖᵉᵈ her eventually. The CookieMonster fades, the bright eyes dim and she’s slumped at home ~ Quirky spud boys can jam after zapping five worthy polysixes. her eyes out, desperately seeking purpose.

 
She’s a spoke in the wheel now, and her parents are proud of her for getting a gig with the

 B

B

C

  Image result for jimmy savile

they’re telling everyone they know about it. The burden weighs on Brenda, the signs visible among gossiping co-workers – she’s snappy, obsessive and quaffing cups of corporate coffee until her teeth are stained brown.
 
Then one day she tops herself,
and somebody else fills her ᵗᶦᶰʸ shoes.
Hypnotic trance pattern
Brenda’s memory fades like an uncared for tattoo. As long as everyone continues to receive virtual strangers’ validation from their sanctuary behind a reassuring cellular screen, and they’ve all got someone to shout at, then it doesn’t really matter.
            I
          My
<——point ——>
           is
            I
you can give me the job, or you can give it to the man shouting at pigeons in Wapping town centre, and it’s unlikely that anything I say is going to alter your mind.
In truth there’s probably already an internal candidate lined up for the role and this is just a legal formality anyway.
 
Employ me and I’ll be great, don’t employ me and someone else could be great, or terrible, or somewhere betwixt the two. You’ll unquestionably receive at least four million applications full of desperation and half-truths.
****************************************************************
I don’t envy you having to wade through that particular sea.
 

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Written by Dom Kureen

As a young rapscallion stranded on an Island, my time is split between writing, performing spoken word, wrestling alligators and delivering uplifting pep talks to hairdressers before they prune me.
I meditate and wash daily when possible.

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