Symbiote Spider-Man
Today was the stupidest fucking day of the summer.
I had an interview with the owner of a local Outback Steakhouse, hoping I could snag a job to supplement a summer interning with Tim Ryan. MaryAnn's good friends with the guy, and got in touch with him last week and scheduled a meeting for me. So I get there at 1:05PM (anytime between 1 and 1:30PM, as per agreement), and the place was in lock-down and it took me a while but I rang the doorbell after about 10 minutes of thinking, "What the fuck?" Lady opens the door, I tell her I'm supposed to meet with Ben for an interview, and she tells me that Ben's not there, won't be in for another half hour at least, but while I'm waiting, I can fill out some paper work. So I take my time filling out a four-page application that details all my previous kitchen experience, Bob Loblaw, and it takes me about a half an hour. Then I sit around, waiting for the lady to return. That takes about another 10 minutes. She gives me more paperwork--those personality quizzes employers use now so they don't have to waste their time interviewing.
And of course, I fail the personality test because there are questions like Verbal abuse is to be expected and is appropriate in the workplace, and I made the mistake of answering DISAGREE instead of STRONGLY DISAGREE. So I failed the test, and they didn't even bother to look at my application or talk to me about my experience or conduct the interview that I was there for. The whole thing took about an hour and a half, and when it was all over, I told my lady that she was retarded, and I'd wished (again) that I could vomit on command, because I would have taken that entire place out.
So, pissed and needing a reason to feel bad-ass, I put on a Led Zeppelin CD and speed from Niles to Champion, cursing at the top of my lungs the entire time, leaving angry voice-mails on Mom's phone, telling her that I'm going back to Oxford, and fuck Cortland and Trumbull County and this stupid lame-ass economy.
And I mowed Grandma and Grandpa's lawn, ate a great sandwich, had a lemonata, and came home, and bitched about it all to Dad and Matt and MaryAnn.
I went to Noah's to pick up the things I left in his car on Saturday. (A stupid fucking night. Hilarious. Shameful. A full gamut of emotions.) He says, "Come in; hang out," and I do. We're laughing about how I can't even pass a personality test, and brainstorming about other restaurants I can apply to, when who calls me, but Nevada.
A-buh?
I pick up the phone, sprint outside where the reception's better, and low and behold, it seems the John Edwards intern department is just really slow at getting back to people. I fucking got the gig. Las Vegas wants me.
I'm leaving in June. Don't know when. ...But June.
And I got the Final Jeopardy answer correct: Alfred Nobel.
What a stupid fucking day.
I had an interview with the owner of a local Outback Steakhouse, hoping I could snag a job to supplement a summer interning with Tim Ryan. MaryAnn's good friends with the guy, and got in touch with him last week and scheduled a meeting for me. So I get there at 1:05PM (anytime between 1 and 1:30PM, as per agreement), and the place was in lock-down and it took me a while but I rang the doorbell after about 10 minutes of thinking, "What the fuck?" Lady opens the door, I tell her I'm supposed to meet with Ben for an interview, and she tells me that Ben's not there, won't be in for another half hour at least, but while I'm waiting, I can fill out some paper work. So I take my time filling out a four-page application that details all my previous kitchen experience, Bob Loblaw, and it takes me about a half an hour. Then I sit around, waiting for the lady to return. That takes about another 10 minutes. She gives me more paperwork--those personality quizzes employers use now so they don't have to waste their time interviewing.
And of course, I fail the personality test because there are questions like Verbal abuse is to be expected and is appropriate in the workplace, and I made the mistake of answering DISAGREE instead of STRONGLY DISAGREE. So I failed the test, and they didn't even bother to look at my application or talk to me about my experience or conduct the interview that I was there for. The whole thing took about an hour and a half, and when it was all over, I told my lady that she was retarded, and I'd wished (again) that I could vomit on command, because I would have taken that entire place out.
So, pissed and needing a reason to feel bad-ass, I put on a Led Zeppelin CD and speed from Niles to Champion, cursing at the top of my lungs the entire time, leaving angry voice-mails on Mom's phone, telling her that I'm going back to Oxford, and fuck Cortland and Trumbull County and this stupid lame-ass economy.
And I mowed Grandma and Grandpa's lawn, ate a great sandwich, had a lemonata, and came home, and bitched about it all to Dad and Matt and MaryAnn.
I went to Noah's to pick up the things I left in his car on Saturday. (A stupid fucking night. Hilarious. Shameful. A full gamut of emotions.) He says, "Come in; hang out," and I do. We're laughing about how I can't even pass a personality test, and brainstorming about other restaurants I can apply to, when who calls me, but Nevada.
A-buh?
I pick up the phone, sprint outside where the reception's better, and low and behold, it seems the John Edwards intern department is just really slow at getting back to people. I fucking got the gig. Las Vegas wants me.
I'm leaving in June. Don't know when. ...But June.
And I got the Final Jeopardy answer correct: Alfred Nobel.
What a stupid fucking day.