Rejection is usually such a whimsical experience. You approach a gentleman and suggest 40% anal, and he pelts you with almonds. Someone dumps you the same day you were going to dump them, leaving you sounding good-natured and warm-socked when you say
“You know, it’s funny, you dumping me, because I was going to dump you too! No, really, I was just going to say it, just before you. But well done, really. You won that one. Now you get to do all the crying, because as the dumpee it’s my duty to remain stoic whilst you fucking say how hard it is to do this, because you love me so much. Jesus, this is exactly why I’ve hated you for six months and yes we’ll be friends but only because you’re fit and I want to convince you you made the wrong decision.”
Today, I’ve found a new and even more exciting way to be rejected! I applied for a job – a shit job, no less – and I’ve just found out I “wasn’t successful“. Now, this isn’t special, I know. This happens all the time, to many hundreds of people. It’s not even the first job I’ve been turned down for this year. But it’s really fucked me off, because I’ve realised I’m fundamentally unable to give hot interview.
First, I loathe self-advertising. From a man who keeps a blog, this is queer-talk. Bloggers clearly rate themselves rotten, and are arrogant enough to think that, by tipping their truckload of shit into the ocean, they’re doing something notable and worthwhile. But I can do this, because it’s faceless, and I’m not explicitly saying “bo, I be the bestist”. It’s implicit that I’m the best. Transparent and obvious, maybe. But implicit.
In interviews, however, this translates to awkwardness around the questions “what could you bring to this company” or “why should we employ you?” My disinclination to big myself up leaves me with only a small puddle of answers, such as;
- Ha ha! That’s a good question.
- I dunno.
- I’m nice.
- Why would you employ anyone?
- Well, I’d employ you.
Secondly, I am an atrocious liar. I’m just not organised enough to cover my most rudimentary tracks, and I’m not so embarrassed about my life to want to have that many secrets. The amount of times I’ve had my porn politely propped against my bedroom door by appalled housemates who now have to visualise me wanking in the armchairs is more than once. Why couldn’t I remember to remove the DVD, and take it back to my room? Probably because I was too busy shuffling to the kitchen, because I wasn’t even organised enough to get any wiping materials in.
Sometimes I’m innocent, but even then I can’t cover my tracks; last time I coloured my hair, I used vaseline to prevent my scalp becoming stained, and a bum douche to rinse my hair in the sink. I didn’t think that this would create the impression of unprotected bathroom anal, but from the post-it note I was left, it apparently did.
So, speaking as someone who has learned not to lie, because he will always get found out; when you ask me “why do you want this job?” – I’ll um and ah, and finally come out with “well, it seems like a nice enough place”. Because I’m not physically able to say “I’m dynamic, hardworking, there’s nothing I don’t know and here’s a lock of my hair. If I have any faults it’s that I’m a perfectionist and I make too much money for my employers. Also I rarely forget to shower.”
I was at one interview where they threw in a role-play. I mean, but pardon me if that isn’t the trick of a cunt. It’s super-lying. Not only do I have to pretend something that isn’t happening is happening, when everyone knows it isn’t – I have to pretend that in this situation I would behave like someone who would be good at the job.
During this role-play, my brain synapses went spastic, and all I could do was laugh appreciatively. My eyes swipped helplessly to each interviewer, as they confidently played out their roles, while I laughed (appreciatively, mind), clenching hard enough to combine my buttocks. When I did say something, it was so awful that my body rebelled. From a sitting position in my comfortable chair, I leant forward and put my hand on the floor.
What does THAT say to an interviewer? A man who laughs and puts his hands on the floor? I have tried to put myself in their position, and the only possible explanation I’ve come up with is “our interviewee is haunted”.
This interview was for an admin role. It was a real “put aside your dreams, Mr Blyth, your vast belly needs thrice-daily feeding” day. I was going to prepare a number of questions, about the changeable nature of my career path, and how each job informed the current role in a different way. But bearing in mind I get excited, distracted and sleepy in times of stress, I had spent the entire previous week lying down and frantically playing Soul Caliber.
And I don’t want to sound dramatic, but I really can’t remember much at all from the interview. It seemed to be over in three minutes. I have the foggiest memories that it went something like this;
Them : Thanks for coming in.
Me : Thanks for seeing me, I appreciate it.
Them : So, what made you apply for this job?
[three minute pause]
Them : Well, thanks very much for coming in.
Me : Thanks for seeing me, I appreciate it.
The worst thing about not getting this job is that I’d have been Brenda‘s boss. Gut-ted.