What do Sphincter Girl’s tuckus and San Diego’s job-o-sphere have in common? They both had a gaping hole ripped in them by a smirky chimperor. Bah-dum chhh.
So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.
Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.
Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!
(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!
The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.
So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?
I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).
Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?
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