I am unemployable.
I have never killed a man, I do not staple dead cats to my face, and I haven't seen a single episode of Made in Chelsea. Yet no one will give me a job.
Possibly because these tossers have all the money.
For a while I maintained a tally of jobs I had applied for, but it had be abandoned when it swelled to such a size that it required Cloud support to persist.
I have applied for swathes of administrative roles, a sizeable handful of writing positions, and a burnished nugget of other jobs I never understood in the first place. I have applied for jobs in retail, the council, Transport for London, and I even considered an attempt to fill the recent managerial vacancy at Crystal Palace FC.
During this time I have achieved 4 interviews, a tidy volume of generic rejection emails, and a quantity of silence so gaping it would rival the Nothing in 'The Neverending Story' (a fine alternative title for this blog post).
I applied for his job too.
The problem I now face is that this extended period of unemployment has made me workshy. Earlier this year I secured a temporary administrative position. The simple fear of stepping out of my well-worn routine and having to prove my competence anew almost spurred me to call it off altogether.
As it turns out the job was terrible and made me want to jump in front of a train. My only duty was to sort through the police files of convicts out on probation and prepare them to be digitised. Most of these were sex offenders or child abusers. I read the file of a man who had attached a camera to his shoe in order to film up the skirts of schoolgirls on the bus. I filed photographs of a rape scene covered in blood and semen, a baby who had had its feet burned on an electric stove.
I quit after 6 days.
It was great!
Now I am frightened that not only am I generally unemployable, but that if by some miracle I do find a job my general anxiety will prevent me from taking it, or it will be so awful that I will, quite literally, want to kill myself.
For the last couple of years I have found some work as a freelance games writer, a media that is now dying, work drying up on an almost daily basis. My book is out next year but, realistically, it will make very little money. Which leaves me in something of a tricky position.
Perhaps this time next year I'll be writing from on board my 40-foot yacht during a break from signing copies of my bestselling book and snorting cocaine off Mel Gibson's penis.
But it is much more likely that nothing will have changed for me at all.