Shmooie Bueno Hates Job Hunting (…and jobs in general)
Before I get to my intense hatred of job hunting, I need to vent about the job I just fucking lost. I’ve been in the same kitchen for the past four years, and have felt the need to quit for most of those. This restaurant is a pretty popular local Italian place with incredibly right-wing Christian ownership. Our fucking check stubs say “Jesus is lord” on the corner, for Cthulhu’s sake.
So, needless to say, I’ve always been fairly out of place there.
I’m not the type to bite my tongue, especially when I know that it will rouse some rabble. There are few things I love more in life than a good ol’ rage-filled philosophical back and forth. Sure, I know it’s not the most productive way to get a point across, but damn it’s fucking fun. Because of this proclivity to blasphemous outburst, I was understandably unpopular with some of the management team. Especially my line manager. There was a time where we were the Blasphemy Brothers, but then the motherfucker went and “found Jesus” and, of course, placed a vendetta on my thrice-damned head. Long story short, he finally got what he wanted after I fucked up and missed my alarm. Common mistake, cost me my shitty job.
And now, here I am, unemployed. Shmooie Bueno: Job Hunter.
I fucking hate it. The whole process is dehumanizing. Getting dressed up in the costume of the commoners (you know, slacks and collars and shit) and trying your best to lie about yourself just enough to hide your true, inner scum bag chafes my willy to no end. Especially knowing that the job you’re putting on this dog- and- pony show for isn’t worth your time, just another measly paycheck that’ll barely make it to the next one.
Being the egotistical bastard that I am, I expect jobs to be thrown at my feet, as any employer should be ecstatic to have me on their crew, and how about a raise and a paid vacation, Mr. Bueno? As it turns out, this is never the case. So I go slogging the classifieds daily, apply at every greasy spoon and heart attack shack I can think of, and turn up bupkis. It’s fucking sickening.
So what to do? Sell oranges along the highway? Fake a fall at a supermarket and hope for a successful lawsuit? Or maybe I should grow my dreads back out and follow some fucking jam-band selling veggie quesadillas out the back of my (non-existent) VW Microbus?
Perhaps I do what I should have done long ago and return to Academia.
I know, I know, a degree doesn’t ensure a job, I’ll be in student loan debt up to my ears for the rest of my life, yadda yadda yadda.
I don’t fucking care at this point.
I’m sick to death of being a part of this drone worker society, of submitting to chumps and halfwits just to make my way in this piece of shit system we live in. I’m tired of letting my mind atrophy whilst I break my back. I’m fucking done with all of it.
I am better than all of this. I deserve more (entitled much?). Even if nothing financially good comes of this venture, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of an education and a working mind.
And then I’ll probably beg for my shitty old job back when reality sinks in after graduation.