Applications are a drag. (Thank goodness the apocalypse is coming).

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He knew they made the application process mind-numbing-ly long and tedious on purpose. It was to scare away unqualified applicants and people who did not truly give a flying shit about working there. People like him. Unqualified. Not unqualified because they could not do the work. Unqualified because they didn’t give a shit about doing the work.

He squirmed in his seat.

It’d been an hour but it felt like longer.

Why the hell would they ask him to input his full job history and upload his resume. Seemed redundant to him considering everything they needed and asked for was included on his resume. What a drag, he thought.

“What?” Marcey asked him.

“Boring,” He replied. “And a waste of time.”

“Everything bores you.”

“Just this… this  worthless piece of shit process.”

“Well, its the process.”

He wondered why Marcey put up with his impatience. His immaturity. His stubbornness. His questionable attention span.

He completed his work history and saved his progress before moving onto the next section.

Training and Education. 

He took a deep breath.

Almost complete. Or so he believed. Or so he hoped.

He finished his wine.

If she could put up with him and his attitude for years then he could put up with filling out a single stupid application for a night. It was only fair. Though, the idea of sacrificing the few waking hours he had to himself to complete some stupid application for a job he didn’t want anyway filled him with dread. So much dread. Feelings threatened to cripple the application process.

“Shit.” He sank in his chair.

“Language,” Marcey warned.

“Browser froze.” He tried returning to the previous form. “Didn’t save nothing.”

“Oh man,” She replied. “Do it over.”

“Can’t,” He panicked. “Won’t let me.”

His blood started to boil

A whole hour of his life, potentially wasted. There was no way in hades he would waste another doing another application.

“No way,” He said. “I’ll wait til it thaws.”

“What?” Marcey asked.

“Thaws… Unfreezes,” He replied.

Marcey shook her head. “Strange man.”

He threw his head back against his chair.

“Could have been halfway done with a new one,” Marcey said.

Of course, Marcey was correct. He could have halfway completed another application in the time he was waiting for the window to unfreeze.

“Damn.” He closed the browser.

“That computer is trash,” Marcey said.

He restarted his trash portable laptop.

“So stupid,” He said to himself.

“Sorry, babe,” Marcey said.

“Didn’t want to start over.”

He was furious but kept how he felt to himself.

He restarted the browser.

None of that nine to five plantation bullcrap was going to matter soon anyway. He planned to be self employed. No more putting in stupid applications and begging people for work. He’d rather be homeless or die than to spend the little youth he had left than taking peoples orders. And those horrible commutes… If he wasn’t so afraid of Marcey, he’d pound his fist on the table in disgust.

He entered his username and password.  Logged into the job site. Returned to the application.

A newsfeed window popped up on the bottom corner of his screen. Something about a conflict. Threats of nuclear war.

Soon that nine to five torture wasn’t going to matter. The direction the world was heading, the apocalypse was going to wipe out everything anyway. And only people like him were going to survive. People who understood how fragile and volatile the illusion of living a responsible adult life really was. One nuke. One meteor collision. One caldera eruption. One viral or zombie outbreak away from total anarchy. From wiping away the illusion. Christ will return Oh… he thought in his best Yoruba accent. The thought of judgment day and the impending doom filled him with joy. After the application he’d search Amazon for early Black Friday deals on survival gear and a crossbow.

His application loaded. Everything he’d input…. was…. there.

No survival gear or crossbow shopping now, he thought. The apocalypse would have to wait until after his interview. Marcey tweaked his resume. He was confident there would be an interview in the coming weeks.

“Hey.” He scrolled through his application. “Looks like it saved.”

“Great,” Marcey said.

“Yeah,” He replied. “All there.”

Marcey blew him a kiss.

“Thanks,” He said.

He wondered why she put up with him. But knew why he was able to be an adult and put up with another job application…. For her. Marcey was all the reason he needed.

 

 

You’re the distraction. SMH.

Finger

He added a resource to shared spreadsheet.

This was their first meeting. First week of their weekly conference call. Something he’d been waiting for since he started that literary project so many months ago. Since he decided he wanted to write stories for a living. To be a part of an actual team full of people who shared his literary goals.

Marcey was looking in his direction. Not only looking but staring.

He tried to ignore her but couldn’t.

“Yes?” He asked Marcey.

“Nothing,” She kept staring.

It was something. He knew it was something.

“What is it?” He asked.

The kitchen was cold. Definitely a draft coming from the window.

“You cold?” He asked.

“No, you?”

He shook his head.

He considered asking adjusting the temperature. Changed his mind when he remembered Marcey’s sixty six degree rule. Heat only goes on  when temperature drops below sixty six degrees. The thermostat read seventy degrees last time he checked.

It felt colder than seventy. At least ten degrees colder.

He caught Marcey staring again.

He groaned. “Stop staring.”

“Sorry,” Marcey said. “Your hair.”

“What about it?

“Your hair’s distracting.”

“Oh lord.”

“You need a cut.”

He’d heard that distraction talk before and promised himself he wouldn’t take the bait.

“Not doing this tonight,” He said.

“Guys? You there?” Stacey asked on the phone.

He almost forgot Stacey, third writing partner and Marcey’s sibling, was on the phone. Ready to work.

“Sorry.” He raised the volume on the phone. “No more distractions.”

 

 

My lips are a distraction…

Oh the joys of living with a non artist, non-creative partner.

I’m trying to have a deep, productive conversation about branding and creating content in a way that will attract new readers, and my partner would rather talk about my dry lips.

“Your lips are dry,” She said.

“I’m focused on branding and creating. Not lips,” I reply, slightly irritated. “I don’t need distractions right now.”

“Your lips are a distraction,” She said before yucking like a hyena.

“I guess… yeah,” I dryly replied. “My lips are a distraction.”

She laughs harder.

I sigh.

I don’t find distractions of any kind amusing. Obviously she does.

I’ll make sure to distract her when she wants to have a discussion topics that are important to her. Like Cyber Security. Or BACON.