one of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important

    The last couple of days have been surprisingly rough. I've had a migraine; there's been extra stuff going on socially (much of which is odd, unexpected, and either potentially amazing or heartbreaking, depending); I'm sorting out some internal things (my feelings after finding out that someone I've known since we were teens, but who I haven't talked to in literally half a lifetime, is reading the blog, for instance); neverending financial roller-coaster; and work is far more stressful than usual.

    There is an entry-level position open in the area over which I am nominally in charge. It was posted with very specific instructions for applying, and the deadline was 9:00 this evening. 

    People don't seem terribly capable of following very simple, direct instructions. "Pick up an application at the second floor service area." Where do they go? To the first floor area. Or the second floor supplemental area. Or they call on the telephone. Or they email me - and how exactly do they get my email, when it was specifically, deliberately not included on the posting? - with their resume only. Here is one reason that one is asked, for an entry-level position, to complete an application form: so that each person's data can be compared as simply and easily as possible. Why should your potential employer have to sort through your resume to find what they've asked for on a form?! If I wanted a resume, I would ask for one. I did not.     

     One more thing: if the "Position applying for: _____" blank is left empty, you will not be hired. That is the end of that version of the story. I don't care if you are the best applicant on the planet; if you can't fill in that blank, you don't get a job.

    So, can you imagine how I'm going to spend the next few days? That's right: I'm going to sort applications. When I left this evening, there were 37. Adding the one that I just received by email (well, that's just a resume, so I can safely disregard it), that's 38, pending discovery of more tomorrow morning. For ten hours per week. The job pays nothing.  The thought of what there is to choose from...makes me seriously consider staying home for the next week or two. Avoidance is very appealing.

     And the weirdest thing? Tomorrow night I'm supposed to go to a bar (Ulysses' favorite, ironically) with a friend, to 'strategically meet' a supermodel's (much younger) former stepfather. Faking sick sounds better with each paragraph....

[title quotation by Bertrand Russell]