Recessionary Cover Letters

Dear … You:

I learned about your opening for an outside sales rep on, so I’m sure it’s not even funny how many motherfuckers are applying for this. At this point, after months upon months of this shit, I don’t want this job — I mean, who really wants a fucking job like this — so much as I feel as though I’m supposed to need it. And I do, I guess. I dunno, man. Goddammit, do I fucking hate LinkedIn.

The other night I was drinking free water at a bar and talking to this girl. She asked me what I did. Thing is, I was embarrassed of this shit job when I had this shit job. I just got up from the bar without saying a word and walked home to my shitty apartment and my shitty, dying cat. Yeah, I know how to do this job. I went to college. Seemed like the thing to do at the time. I read a bunch of those fucking books on sales techniques, the ones that make you want to rape yourself. I’m dead in the eyes these days. I look like I need to lie down for a while.

I’m sure I could be a valued member of your sales team. What the fuck is it, exactly, that you sell? I doubt you’re even reading this. After all, it’s coming to you from a fucking Hotmail address. You probably have software that screens out guys like me. Asshole. Anyfuckingway, all the usual pointless shit is on my resume, which I’m sure I’ll forget to attach. Whatever. I’m not hard to find.

Sincerely or whatever,

Chuck Fuckface (not my real name, but it should be)

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