If you knew who I was, you wouldn’t so callously disregard my resume, my cover letter, my LinkedIn profile; no, you would assign me a high-paying sinecure in which I can look at YouTube all day while respectfully pretending to not be looking at YouTube all day, a job that warrants my sparkling personality and all-around likability, a job in which I can unleash my immeasurable talents at, I dunno, stuff or whatever. My mind is a seat of infinite potential that I sit on like a fat man pooping on a porta-potty toilet. Five years previous experience? — that’s inconsequential when faced with the endless possibilities at hand. No, I haven’t done anything significant with my life, but on the other hand, I could do anything significant with my life. That’s the magic of youth! Allow your company to drink at its wellspring of unforeseen latent talent!
Look into my eyes. Gaze into my soul. Take off my shirt. Don’t you know who I am? I’m extremely talented and important, you dumb idiot.
If you would just read my blog, maybe you would understand how great I am. It documents my myriad intense feelings, YouTube videos of cats, and image macros of Obama. When you watch the video of kittens playing in a Christmas tree, you will say to yourself, “He likes funny interesting things and is therefore, according to the transitive property, a funny interesting person. We must hire him at once!” You will think this because you are a shrewd employer who understands that extensive knowledge of internet memes translates directly into high levels of productivity for your company. Read the poems I’ve posted, the ones about my existential despair and psychological turmoil, and you will understand what a deep person I am, full of feelings, so many feelings, all explicated in complicated nuanced metaphors, with words like “lacuna,” “osculate,” and “turbid.” You probably don’t know what those words mean, but I do — my mastery of SAT words indicates I’m extremely smart. Also, important. And talented. And super cool.
A cursory glance through my Facebook will reveal a high percentage of photos of me holding a plastic red cup while making a bemused facial expression, so I might as well confirm that, yes, I am an alcoholic. But think on this for a moment: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, and Charles Bukowski were all alcoholics — what does that tell you? Huh? Put the pieces of the puzzle together, and I trust you’ll form the correct conclusion (hint: I’m exactly the same as them). I mean, I haven’t written a book, but I feel strongly that I could write a book, and if I did, it would be the best book. The language would be so rich, so lyrical, so audacious, Emily Dickinson’s corpse would spontaneously reanimate, march to the nearest cyber-café, and email me a blurb to put on the back cover.
I should record everything I say and turn it into a 24/7 podcast called Everything I Say is Interesting and Important.
I’m worldly, and I know current events. I watch Jon Stewart every day, and sometimes people talk about the news on Twitter. One day, I’ll be famous for whatever talent I’ve yet to manifest, and Ellen DeGeneres will interview me about politics. Then I will say something astonishingly incisive like, “America needs to tax the rich,” or “Congress is full of dummies.” Everyone will stand up and applaud for approximately five minutes until Ellen has to sternly command them to quiet down, but even then, they will keep clapping, and some people will be crying even, puking up blood from sheer overwhelming consensus.
If I could make a movie, it would have a shocking montage at the end where the main character realizes that he and the bad guy are the same person, that he actually has multiple personality disorder. It would be dramatic and surprising. Not that you asked, but my favorite director is Kubrick.
In my mind, I’m the star of a show called My Super Awesome Life that airs everyday, wherever I am, all the time. All these other people, these hapless nobodies, my friends, family — they’re just supporting actors in the ongoing serialized story of my life, and just like with Tim Allen on Home Improvement, none of the other characters matter. Sometimes though, these other people think they’re the stars of their own shows; someone will try and contribute to the conversation as if they’re also important, but of course, it’s never as funny or interesting as what I say, and they know it, and I know it, and everyone knows it, and then I must say something cruel and acerbic to make him feel like when he dies, no one will attend the funeral.
Deep down, I know my mind is a swollen spider’s egg, waiting to burst open and release a million hungry babies, who will gnaw and nibble their way through my skull and stream from my eyes, nose, and mouth. I can see the breakdown approaching, the sudden realization of what I really am. My ego’s stretched too thin like an overinflated hot air balloon. Something has to give.
But I’ve gotten really off topic. As I was saying, I’m extremely talented and important, and you should absolutely hire me because, after all, God didn’t make the world for you. He only made it for me. I’m the best. Me. No one else.