by Roxane Hudon
I’m a 26-year old failure of a journalist, because, instead of folding in or even trying, I’ve been having fun. I’m sorry, world, this is my biggest flaw: my relentless attraction to a good time, which has somehow lead me to a basement in Glasgow, wondering what the hell I’m doing with a prestigious degree in Broadcast Journalism (the very same art mastered by such greats as Barbara Walters and Todd van der Heyden) unstapling papers, nodding along to conversations about weddings and counting the minutes until the end of the day when I can finally don my red Cons and head to a hardcore show where I subtly attempt to infiltrate a new social circle by nodding along to conversations about all things “wee” and “aye” and so on. This type of flawless social skill has forced at least one Glaswegian to best describe me as “mousey” and has also won me the unique, original and catchy nickname of “Canada.” Imminent success awaits, world!
In my latest effort to broaden my horizons and perhaps finally become a reasonable, responsible, decent human being who can figure out the simple things in life like making money, paying taxes and not constantly embarrassing oneself in front of members of all sexes, I would like to be considered for all of the following positions. Thank you kindly for your consideration and I hope to hear from you soon.
To Whom It May Concern at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration,
I’m a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, a practice, a science, really, that pushes you to observe and report on everything around you. A particularly astute teacher once told me that, to be a journalist, one must be like “a fly on the wall.” I thought to myself: “Why not take that a step further? Why not take that a GIANT LEAP further?” And so, NASA, I’d like to push that wall and be “a fly in space,” which is why I think I would be the ideal candidate for a job, any job really, within your organization.
I would easily describe myself as someone who has always had a certain kind of appreciation for space, the universe and all that it entails. I enjoy the sun and when it’s sunny. I enjoy the planets and the sentence I had to learn as a child to memorize their order (Mon Vieux, Tu Me Jettes Sur Une Nouvelle Planète). The moon also pleases me, especially when it’s quite large, but obviously my enthusiasm for the moon cannot compare to the time and love certain of my friends dedicate to it, burning things and preparing “special nights” for the “supermoon,” blaming it for bad or good karma and referring to their “moonblood” (for more info, please visit alsdaskindkindwar.bandcamp.com). Obviously, NASA, I think my friends with New Age-tendencies could be an asset if I were chosen to join your organization, to remind me that the moon is not just a silly shiny rock in the sky, but clearly something that alters our state of being. At the age of 16, I once lied on a beach in Riviera Maya, Mexico, staring at the stars with a soft-headed American boy from Boston who proclaimed: “Isn’t it amazing that we’re the only ones in the whole world looking at this very bit of sky at this very moment?” At the time, I thought he was a total moron, but maybe he had a point, maybe my judgment was simply impaired by my fear of him possibly reaching out to touch me.
Currently, I am working as a data centre specialist, writing down numbers, unstapling pages and counting them. Sometimes, when I’m unstapling, I zone out and think of space and the planets and the possible aliens. I dream of climbing on to a rocket and launching into space. The numbers become shooting stars, the pages, emptiness and I am floating. NASA, I am the astronaut of data entry, take me to the motherboard and bounce me off to Jupiter.
To Whom It May Concern at the Secret Intelligence Service (MI-6) or Her Majesty’s Secret Service,
I’m a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, a practice, a series of operations really, that pushes you to observe and report on everything and everyone around you. A particularly astute teacher once told me that, to be a journalist, one must be like “a fly on the wall.” I thought to myself: “Why be a fly on the wall, when one can be a spy on the wall?” See what I did there, Moneypenny? Because why settle for the fly, when the spy has the licence to kill. And so, I think my years of training as an observant insect, as well as my impending attempt to subtly insert a reference to Octopussy in this cover letter, would make me the ideal candidate for a job, any job really, within your organization.
I would easily describe myself as someone with a strong affinity for secret operations, nifty gadgets and going under covers. I have taken it upon myself within my network of friends to conduct intensive human intelligence operations, often targeting humans of the male variety. Once I have successfully zeroed in on a possible suspect, I am quick to report back to headquarters regarding strange behaviour (please review the Grumpys Incident of 2011 or operation That Time That Latino Dude Asked To Borrow Girly Pyjama Pants). Two of my major skills include whispering and eavesdropping, which I think could come in handy in general MI-6 situations. I’ve also been working on a few suave one-liners I could use when I encounter a villain at a sumptuous gala, right before we indulge in some rough hand-to-hand combat on a rooftop. These may or may not be the same suave one-liners I will use to seduce a lady later that same night, because, of course, I will be a man. The only lady spy of note was named Harriet.
Currently, I am working as a data centre specialist, writing down numbers, unstapling pages and counting them. Sometimes, when I’m unstapling, I imagine myself navigating a motorboat in Venice, chasing a one-eyed man while the breeze rips my blouse open to reveal a perfect man-chest. I dream of exotic lands and bad guys with bushy eyebrows and sharp teeth. But mainly, I close my eyes and imagine myself holding a gun, which is why you should probably hire me.
To Whom It May Concern at the Illuminati,
I’m a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, which, of course, is a total sham. I’d like to squash the “fly on the wall” and join your elite world of power and wealth. I wasn’t sure how one applied for a position within your organization, so I sliced and diced this letter, put it in the blender and mixed it into Blue Ivy Carter’s morning porridge, assuming it would get into the right hands eventually.
Considering I’m not quite sure what it means to be part of the Illuminati, except for being connected with other wealthy and powerful people, I’m uncertain of what qualities and skills of mine I could possibly share with you to assure you that I am perfect for this job. Instead, I will list some of my connections that may come in handy to you, and also offhandedly mention that I was once referred to as a “mastermind,” which could help you in maintaining secret world domination and financial control over the general populace. I have a Doctor friend, which, of course, you probably already have many of, but mine is gorgeous and always smells like vanilla. The editor of Maclean’s once retweeted me, after I suggested he marries a bulldog. A famous Montreal burlesque dancer once introduced me to her mother. One of my closest friends is a horse trainer, in case you have had to fire one of yours. I own an elven tunic with the right amount of hood for those times when we meet in dark, Medieval-looking dungeons to discuss whatever it is we will discuss as the Illuminati (the Federal Reserve, or whatever). I have read the Da Vinci Code and can probably muster up a few words in German (“Schnell! Schnell!”).
Currently, I am working as a data centre specialist, writing down numbers, unstapling pages and counting them. I have access to numbers that could be used as code for the secret messages that we transmit to each other about whatever it is members of the Illuminati have to say to each other. Sometimes, when I zone out, I start seeing triangles within the numbers I’ve written down. I am a fan of all the musicians shown in this informative Illuminati video
I can’t wait to put Gamma Ray’s No World Order on my iPod, also I FUCKING KNEW MATTHEW GOOD WAS ILLUMINATI, because he’s obviously the one who killed Michael Jackson and Amy Winehouse. Lastly, you should probably consider me for this, or any, position, because I more than prepared to kill anyone who would catch me drawing those triangles with eyes in them, because as an Illuminati, I am aware no one could know that I am the one watching them through my secret drawings of triangles with eyes in them, because I would be an Illuminati and it would be a secret. Most importantly, I will never quite be able to figure out what exactly the Illuminati is supposed to be doing, thus always keeping it a secret and only wanting to join to be able to wear my elven tunic in a dark place with a bunch of rich, old, white men and Jay-Z
To Whom It May Concern at the Revolution,
I’m a recent enough graduate of the School of Journalism, a practice, a voice for the voiceless. A particularly depressing teacher once tried to tell me that a journalist should be a “fly on the wall.” That was the moment I decided I would most likely never be a journalist, or at least not the kind that had to stick to the wall or buzz around dead people, which is why I think I’d be an ideal candidate to join your movement. Journalism was once a tool used for the people to defend themselves against the system, when did it decide to turn against the people?
Clearly, Revolution, I have some idealistic, revolutionary thoughts still bobbing about in my aging, cynical, boozed-addled, confused brain, which is why you should probably give me a chance. I would easily describe myself as someone rebellious of authority, kind of like an eternal 14-year old. During my last year of high school, I scrawled, “Art is Life, Science is Death” on my shirt, which is completely idiotic, but proves that I have the potential to come up with catchy slogans if need be. Revolution, I see you with your red squares and your clanging pots, and you are beautiful. I want to bring you to me, but I don’t want to be where you are. I feel what you are feeling, but I want to stay where I am and receive your passion through bits and pieces until I am a one-woman, pot-clanging parade in Glasgow, and then maybe I’ll be ready to come back to you. I would like the opportunity to work for you as a foreign correspondent, I’d like to bring you around the world, in my pocket, pinned on my shirt.
Currently, I am working as a data centre specialist, writing down numbers, unstapling pages and counting them. But, I know there’s more, more than I can imagine and I know you’re out there, Revolution, a little piece of you that I can make my own over here. I just haven’t figured out how to find you yet, friend. Please keep the position open until I am ready.
There is no form of journalism that will take you in, just do it yourself and find a rich sheikh to fund you and stop complaining.
This is a think-piece for stragglers, feel free to use all cover letters for your own personal use and maybe we’ll meet somewhere along the journey to success.