Say What You Damn Mean

I’ve decided to use Fridays as a platform to speak about whatever I damn well please because fuck it. Welcome to ‘Fuck It/You Fridays’. Inspired by my day so far is the title above. Say what you damn mean. For real. Ask for what you want in explicitly clear terms so there can be no confusion to be had whatsoever. This goes for all aspects of your life. No playing games. No bullshit. No wasting anybody’s time.

Say. What. You. Damn. Mean.

Yours truly had an interview today. I was excited at the prospect because it looked like one of those cute, hipstery start-ups where people can take their dogs to work and drink craft beer as a team on Friday. The position was for data entry and while it isn’t the most thrilling job in the world, the environment is and if people like you enough, you know there’s the opportunity to move about.

So I arrive at this interview looking cute as hell. The girl interviewing me is also dressed cute as hell. I’m excited. She’s friendly. We actually started dead ass at the time I was scheduled for. So far, so good!

She asks me what I know about their company, and after spending five minutes on their website, I decide to go the route of how impressed I am that they have a London office.

Her: Well, it’s not so much a London office so much as we have a guy.

boy-african-africa-child-47080.jpeg
This little boy’s face accurately represents how I felt on the inside.

Red flag number one. Though, in their defense, saying ‘We have a guy’ sounds shady as hell. Still, maybe you don’t want to mention on your company website about having an office in London when you, you know, don’t.

Having ‘a guy’ is not an office. That guy could just be chilling in his apartment in his underwear. I don’t know that guy’s life. But I sure as hell know that if someone came knocking on my door looking for an office…

…I mean, I guess they technically aren’t wrong, but I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Especially considering my ‘office’ consists of a modest table filled with crumbs and questionable stains from the ghosts of snacks past.

Still, I’m willing to give these people the benefit of the doubt because I’m painfully, densely optimistic.

Then I’m hit with:

Her: We’re actually not hiring for data entry right now.

Me: (Thinking, smiling outwardly) This might be the chance to really utilize my skills. Their blog is lacking. blog. Maybe they need someone to update. Hell yes, Kira! High five!

Her: But we are looking for someone in sales instead.

Me: (Internally screaming, still outwardly smiling, but with murder eyes)

If it’s sales you’re looking for, why the hell would you post for data entry? Nowhere in my resume does it even HINT that I’m good with sales.

I’ve had a couple sales related positions in the past and I hated them with a burning passion. I hate when people try to ‘sell me’ on shit I don’t need. I hate trying to push things people don’t need off on them. Leave me alone. I don’t want to be that person, I don’t want to be involved with those people. I’m good, my guy.

I asked if there was literally anything else and she said it was all they had, so I politely declined.

The girl interviewing me expressed disappointment that I didn’t want to do the position I that I had no intention of signing up for. Shocker, I know. She even commented, “But you’re so good at selling yourself!”

Of course I’m good at selling myself. I have to be good at selling myself. Not to mention, I’m pretty fucking awesome so it’s not hard.

Still, this could have saved me time and gas if she had just said what she damn meant the first time.

Thanks for clarifying in the email before I got there, sis. But at least in preparation for this, I did my hair and now it looks on point.

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