When looking for a job a certain amount of bigging yourself up comes with the territory. Today is the second day in my quest to leave the woes of internships and freelance journalism behind and join the big boys. As if a gal in a club liquored with false confidence, I am going to the top of the charts, knocking on the doors of the big names, after all...there is no harm in trying. But unlike that gal who has now left the rugby corner and is looking for comfort in the arms of the next best thing (the footballers - uni banter, it's all about muscle capacity), I am under no allusion that my dream job is going to fall into my lap upon the click of an email or a lick of a stamp. That is just about as silly as Coleen thinking that Wayne will get better looking with age, he won't.
In the past four years I have sent stacks upon stacks of emails, it is a surprise I am not suffering from arthritis as my fingers gallantly skip along the keys. I am a hard worker, check. I am reliable, check. I am willing to sit in a magazine closet and sort socks for two years before they offer me the comfort of a desk, check. I will do just about anything to get a job (not that). The thing is, the more you try the more down hearted you get. From now on I shall update you on my jobless journey, not only is it because, let's face it, everyone needs a break from sentences such as: "I have attached my CV for your further consideration", but because it will be nice for y'all to know that you are not alone. So in true Suffragette style, let us stand together and push each other on until that dream job comes knocking. If only for my sanity.
Holla.
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