“Sorry to inform you…”

Those dreaded words. “We are sorry to inform you that you have not been selected for interview….you have not been shortlisted for progression.” Well, I’m sorry to inform you that I never even cared, and the only reason I’m reacting in an angry or a sad way to this news is because I just watched a very emotional documentary on Netflix.. oh, what was it called? I think it was something like, “Cian Dalton, you will never amount to anything.” Yes, very specific to me, I thought it was odd too.
No matter how much of a brave face you put on it still hurts to get an email like that. I like to immediately tell whoever knows about my interest in said job that I never really wanted it anyways. I assure them that I am so glad that I didn’t get selected for that cushy office job with at least 4 weeks paid holidays a year, free parking and half off the gym in the same business park. Sure what would I want all that for? What would I be doing with health and dental benefits? I haven’t been to either in years, HA HA HA.
It’s only when I’m on my own then that I sit and lament and mourn my four weeks holidays that I had already planned in my head.

My biggest problem is I hype jobs up i mo cheann. I’ll get a call or an email setting up an interview and in my gorgeous, big-brained head I will already have the job. I’ll plan out my holidays, have trips booked and weekends away all thought out. I’ll be singing the praises of the job to my parents and anyone who will listen. “Yeah, I’ll have Friday and Saturday off, right? Unreal, I know! I’ll just have to work nights for the rest of my life, work every single Bank holiday and miss Christmas Day, New Years Day, and most birthdays and anniversaries. Money? Haven’t asked em yet.”

I’m lucky I have a job, and a grand one at that. Sure look, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be unemployed, homeless or worse. I am very lucky and have had a great year. I’m just sick of getting emails saying my experience in New York isn’t worth anything in the Emerald Isle. I’m sorry now, but if I could become sort of friends with the homeless people who used camp outside the building in Manhattan and get them to leave before my boss came down in the morning, I think I could handle a few Americans asking, “Where’s the Blarney Stone? I want the gift of the gab!” I tell you now you’ll get the gift of the jab off me if you stand that close to me again hi!

So look, I’m sorry to inform you, but I don’t want your poxy job anyways. I have an extremely successful blog. Haven’t heard of it? Check my C.V.

Jesus Christ this is on my C.V.! No wonder I’m feckin’ unemployable.

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