A Job Application

To the HR fucko who thinks AirMaxes and slacks have ever been an acceptable combo,

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because I’ve got nothing else left to lose. Maybe because I need to prove to myself that I can still reach out for something without my hands shaking too hard to hit send.

I am a wreck of a person. I am a burned-out, chemically scorched, half-alive, dissociating husk of a girl who has spent years living in an endless cycle of drug binges, hormone crashes, hospital beds, meaningless casual sex, lost IDs, and waking up in places I don’t remember getting to. My body is held together with duct tape and estrogen. My brain is a pile of scorched circuits that still somehow reboots every morning. I am alive out of sheer, stupid momentum.

And I want to work. Because if I’m not working, I’m dead.

I can’t do small talk, corporate handshakes, or pretending to be normal. I don’t know what it’s like to be “stable,” and I don’t trust anyone who claims they are. But I do know how to hyperfixate, dismantle, rebuild, and push through problems like a starving dog tearing through a locked gate. I can take a broken system and gut it, rewire it, force it to make sense even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how I’ve survived. When everything else failed, I learned to make systems work even when they weren’t supposed to. I’ve scraped together solutions from nothing, from desperation, from the ugliest, darkest places where no one is supposed to get back up from—but I did. And I keep doing it. And I need somewhere to put that energy before it eats me alive.

I will work harder than anyone you have ever hired. Not because I want to impress you, and not because I give a fuck about “success,” but because I have nothing else left. If you give me a problem, I will tear it apart with my teeth until I find the answer. I will burn myself down to the nerve endings to get it right.

I don’t expect you to hire me. I don’t expect you to trust me. But if you do—if you give me something that actually matters, something that pushes back, something that doesn’t feel like just another slow-motion failure waiting to happen—then I will give you every last piece of what’s left of me, and I won’t stop until the job is done.

If that’s worth something to you, let me know. If not, that’s fine too. Either way, thanks for reading.

Not like I expect you to still be reading this,

someone.

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