While on the field for my job (my highly important job that I love, not at this place that keeps rejecting me from a job I didn’t want), I was waiting for the bus (because I don’t know how to drive) and saw this:
Nature is both surprising and awe-inspiring
And my bitter snarky mind immediately wanted to send joking text messages to the five people that will entertain my shenanigans.
I applied for a job, by the request of a person that works at the office, about five months ago. I got a call back and did one of those annoyingly long phone interviews – the ones where you have to hide in the corners of your actual job and whisper talk during a lunch break that goes for over an hour.
And I didn’t get it (I know. I’m shocked, too). They sent me a quick email letting me know. Such is life, such is war.
After suffering the rejection, I went about my life as normal and didn’t dwell on this humiliating defeat at all.
And I got a new job.
And life proceeded as normal.
And then I got ANOTHER email letting me know I didn’t get the job. As though, a month later, they felt the need to remind me just in case I didn’t get the message the first time.
That’s a nice feeling.
Two months pass.
AND I GET A THIRD FUCKING EMAIL LETTING ME KNOW I DIDN’T GET THE FUCKING JOB.
So, I decided to let them know that as much as I appreciate them incessantly informing me that they didn’t think I was the right candidate maybe they could stop sending me rejection emails.
I make an alarming number of Timbaland references.
Anyway. For my horrible job I have long interviews with crazy people and then write websites based off of their bizarre delusions. During the interview, I have to fill out long, long questionnaires with their rambling verbal deliriums.
Since the world is ending following a racist bottle of orange Crush being named our president-elect, it’s timely that one of the websites would include something about arming babies for a baby militia. I’m assuming that’s what’s going on here:
Who wants to make “arm the babies” shirts for You Life?
I had a job once, a job that I wasn’t qualified for, which required me to have long conversations with business owners describing their businesses so that I could write about them. The nature of this blog should be an indicator that I was not successful at this career. Partially because I spent a great deal of time browsing websites dedicated to things that NO ONE should Google (like spending an entire conversation researching Alan Thicke’s career) while talking to these people, and also because sometimes people had CRAZY businesses which would be best kept locked in their imaginations.
However, despite the insanity of a large handful of small business owners, this job generated some magical interactions with people that had hypothetical careers and businesses based on, what I believe to be, significant dissociative disorders. Cognitively I am in no position to judge.
Except I am going to judge. Like right now. Because this shit was wild.
[I don’t have photos pertaining to this consultation until the last paragraph, so instead of photos that relate to the post I’m just going to use my favorite photos of Phil Collins – none of which I own the copyright to]
The woman I was talking to, for over an hour, claimed to be a nurse. (Halfway through the conversation she switched up nurse and clarified that she was actually, “a healer”). But she only practiced one field of medicine, which was edifying people on the nature of dream babies. What’s a dream baby? One might ask (like me). And they would be sorry they did, because she told me what the fuck a dream baby is.
A dream baby, according to this healer, is a predictive baby that you dream about – but is also real. Even if it’s a dream. What? You might be asking. That doesn’t seem like it could be AT ALL A THING. And I would agree with you. While describing herself now as a gypsy, she went on to say that pregnancy dreams are an ultrasound from God. Even if you’re a man or a very old person incapable of having a baby, if you dream about one you have a fucking baby. It’s with you – no escape. The spirit of dream baby lives in you – AND FUCKING TALKS TO YOU. And that the dream baby….is a real living (?) baby that exists maybe within you, but I don’t entirely know. It was confusing as hell. Here are some of the notes I jotted down while on the consultation.
And then we got into the good stuff. The better stuff. Which was a long drawn out conversation about how during conception sometimes it will be off by two weeks. It’s a mystical magical phenomenon called the “missing two weeks” from the date you actually convinced (either in your mind during a dream or conceived during fucking – it wasn’t clarified). The two weeks could be early or two weeks late. She said, – ya know – , for example that, say, if you were a deployed solider and come home to find out that your partner got pregnant while you were deployed it was probably due to the mystery sperm that lay dormant for two weeks and then decided to travel to the egg. Aw, yes. That old chestnut. Dormant sperms.
But don’t worry! She also sent me pictures to use. And suggested that I always listen to a “spirit baby,” should I dream of one. However, if this is what a fucking spirit baby looks like, I will actively pursue an exorcism instead:
Edited to protect the identity of the healer. The person looking at this. And most importantly: me.
I mean…that’s a monster, right? If you’re dreaming of that I would wake up to light sage and ask God to re-think his dream ultrasound or whatever the fuck. Because if that spirit baby was talking to me, and looked like that, I could only imagine that it would be speaking in tongues about the virtues of Satanism.
Everyone has signed up for job alerts, right? I mean…unless you’re an heiress chances are you’ve signed up for Smart Match, and Beyond, and Monster, and Indeed (or InFact or whatever it’s called). And then your name goes on a list and you end up getting emails from The Ladders, and Duke Careers, and High Life – right?
I think the way these emails have evolved is purely magical. Since I haven’t cultivated the garden of employment emails, or specific job skills, in the last three years my email alerts for new jobs make me feel like I’m a spy. Also, the diverse nature of my abilities according to these alerts is truly staggering. See:
Either a bartender at TGIFridays – an establishment I was previously fired from. OR an exciting new career as an International Communications Manager – a job I’ve never heard of.
And of course:
The viable option for me to be a physician at Abington Hospital.
I used to work for a legitimate crazy person at her home office, which is a horse of different color. But one day these two super-hot dudes came to her door and said they were selling books. So instantly suckered into their little web of deceit, my boss and I bought like $45 worth of books. Fun side note, the grimier one of the dudes gave me his number in case I needed my, “lawn trimmed” (his words, not mine).
After six months, it became apparent that two jerk-offs ripped off an old (crazy) lady and a young girl. No books appeared. However, I did start receiving a subscription to Gourmet Magazine that I never requested or paid for.
Because sometimes the universe rewards you by being ripped off by someone who you thought was flirting with you with a magazine that you’ve never been interested in, used, or really read. And then it further rewards you by sending you William Sonoma catalogues for two years following, assumedly because of it. Thanks, universe!
And something similar happened to my best friend Shawn recently:
Not since the new York Times accidentally leaked an NSA employee’s name has a publication made such a grievous error. It has come to my attention that I made a abysmal mistake in my previous update. This blunder was brought to me by my co-worker and friend “Micha…” in yesterdays chat (and chat photo). As it turns out when I was picking G.I. Joe characters I picked a inaccurate character to represent him. I originally intended Duke to be used for someone else, but sheer laziness and Microsoft Paint had other plans.
This was my miscalculation and embarrassing oversight.
Since Micha… was kind enough to bring to my attention the horrendous slip-up on my part, as a favor I am issuing a redaction with a correction. Mea Culpa, Micha…! Thankfully, he was so magnanimous that he even offered me a list to pick from for the corrected inter-office chat photo:
he makes so many valid points
Let’s hope that You Life doesn’t flounder into the world of Brian Williams-like disreputable-ness. Here is the corrected hilarity from yesterday: