Let’s be honest: the real thrill of adulthood isn’t paying taxes or regular dental visits — it’s the masochistic euphoria of submitting résumés to roles that make your soul feel like it wants to chainsaw its way out of your chest. Who among us hasn’t felt the giddy rush of typing “Why I’m passionate about [industry you despise]” into a cover letter field. My fingers no longer tremble with the weight of my own lies.

There’s something almost poetic about selling your skills to a company whose mission statement reads like a hostage letter. “Must thrive in fast-paced environments!” (Translation: Your boss will email you at 2 AM.) “Opportunity for growth!” (Into what? A sentient pile of burnout?) And my personal favorite: “We’re like a family here!” Please god, anything but that. Every since HBO got honest we’ve seen nothing but constant assurance that home is where mental health goes to die.

But the true joy comes when they actually call you back. Suddenly, you’re in a Zoom interview with a hiring manager with no understanding of your field who says “synergy” unironically, and you have to pretend your biggest weakness is “caring too much” instead of “a murderous rage I keep quietly alive to battle the ogre of depression.” Do you take the offer out of financial desperation? Ghost them and change your LinkedIn to “freelance anarchist”? The world is your oyster — a rotten, slightly suspicious oyster that probably violates labor laws.

The real tragedy? We can’t even fantasize about the fresh breeze of violence to free us because that’s an actual threat these days. So here we are applying to work where we will choke down lukewarm coffee and airplane bottles of desperation, selling our hours like a sexless act of prostitution with worse lighting. God, if you’re listening (and at this point, why would you be? Likely your ATS discarded my missive as unqualified), resurrect some dead-eyed belief from its shallow grave. Let me hope — just once — that a better opportunity exists. Or at least a funnier way to perish. Amen.”