Cover Letter Mad Libs

The Zany Way to Apply for Jobs You Don’t Want!



To Whom It May (Verb),

I am writing to apply for the position of (job title). This job is a great opportunity to utilize my (fake skill) as a/an (job title you don’t want) who excels in a team environment and has the (self reflexive adjective) to work with minimal supervision to very high levels of (noun).

I graduated from (name of overpriced institution of higher learning) in May of 2008 and worked from September 2008 until May 2009 at (proper noun). From May 2009 when my (bad experience) ended until the present I have worked for (proper noun) as a/an (demeaning job). My job as (name of something horrible) is primarily concerned with managing (plural noun) in our online (gerund). Since beginning this job in May of 2009 I have (plural noun) and also spent several weeks full time (way one might die).

Recently my position at (name of something horrible) expanded so that I assisted the (proper noun) with donor issues such as (bad experience) and refunds. Working in the fast paced and detail-oriented world of (noun), I had the opportunity to take a lot of initiative in how I handled (mean adjective) donor issues, and stalled (bad word-plural).

Thank you very much for your (noun). I look forward to (gerund) from you.

Sincerely,
(proper noun)

The Tremendous, Fascinating and Totally True Adventures of D and Al

I worked in a gelato shop for many months. And by "worked" I mean I hunched behind the chocolate counter and drew this, instead.

Coming Out Letter, October 2007

I finished reading "The Death of the Heart" by Elizabeth Bowen the night before a reflection paper on it was due to Julie Abraham, my rather intimidating professor who was originally from Australia. The class she taught had a very long title, and was a semester-long class on the queer interpretation of Virgina Woolf's texts. The class was brilliant and illuminating, but at 11:40 the night before meeting with Professor Abraham, I was having kind of a hard time focusing on writing down my honest reflections of "The Death of the Heart."

I wrote this, instead.

Dear Julie Abraham,

It’s midnight and I have to tell you about The Death of the Heart, and how Elizabeth Bowen is clever, and tragic, all at the same time. I am wearing short shorts with a squirrel motif emblazoned on the front of them, and a tank top that says “TOTALLY Not a Girl," on one side and has a male symbol on the other, all of which is written in red marker. The white of the shirt (which is actually a wife beater, I couldn’t say it before, I wore it when I performed with my boyband--I won't get into the details) is stained pink from the time I washed it and forgot that pen is only mostly permanent when met with water. I am listening to Justin Timberlake singing about girls and he's calling them 'bitches', and I know that you would hate this music with a fire-y passion, and you would make a face I have seen you make where your jaw tightens and your eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. It’s a scary look. You are sort of scary.

What I wanted to tell you is that I am not a lesbian, and I have been making wildly inappropriate jokes about characters being gay due to their choice of (sensible) footware during class in order to see what I can get away with now that I have a shaved head. I am a very good actress, but beyond that, my whole post-pubescent life I have been mistaken for a dyke. This is a funny sort of identity crisis in and of itself, as the experience of being called a dyke when one grows up in San Francisco is, I would imagine, somewhat different than if someone is growing up and called a dyke in a backwards town in Southern Australia, or Kansas. In a family that has never once worried me about my sexuality, in a town known for its leniency towards those of a homosexual nature, it was more of the constant reminder that being gay is okay, and that I have nothing to worry about.

Only I am not a lesbian, and never have been. I’ve tried it, a little, dabbled here and there, if you will. I have treaded the rainbow path, but never frolicked it, and frustrated and hurt as I’ve been by boys (not yet men, fortunately or not) I have somehow never once considered seriously giving them up. Girls have always fallen for me. I will always remember with a weird sort of fondness the number of girls who told me that they were in love with me in high school, and my sophomore year of college there was one chick who had it bad. Oblivious to it all, I was flattered when I was told, but never felt a particular sense of having missed out on anything.

I do, of course, acknowledge that you probably don’t care about my sexuality. It is entirely possible that never once did you think that I am gay, and find my sense of humor to be engaging, and so don’t get offended when I make lesbian jokes. But somehow I know that if you were to find out that I am a poser, a fake, a dyke imposter, you would be none so amused. Or perhaps I underestimate you. Either way, I needed to come out about this, and hope that this letter breaks the news to you as gently as possible. My mom calls me a cultural anthropologist—I did go to Catholic school as a Jew, and have on more than one occasion now taken classes that demarginalize race, gender, and sexuality...these intersections fascinate me, and it pisses me off that an interest in these issues is so often considered indicative of being gay, like you can only care about various –isms if they “directly” affect your life. Everyone should know this stuff, because it affects everybody. But whatever. I digress.

I guess it’s sort of a weird statement to make—to come out to someone as being not-gay. Truth is I hate it when people define themselves by who they have sex with. What does it matter, really? Isn’t saying that one is a lesbian, or a straight woman, or a dyke, re-instituting a different sort of norm? Why should anybody care whom I have sex with unless I am having sex with them? It doesn’t mean anything about my lifestyle necessarily, but so often it does, or seems to. Lesbians wear sensible shoes and like to hike and have dogs and process everything. Not true for everyone, but true for many. Straight women wear high heels and like to be told they’re beautiful and if they don’t marry then they’ll have a shit ton of cats and always need to talk. Not true for everyone, but true for many.

Queer, okay, so that means that I’m different. I am a connectosexual, after all, and know that I do have that curious ability to fall in love with people irregardless of body parts…Bisexual, you could call it. But honestly, Julie Abraham, I’m much more concerned with what else there is. Namely: why aren’t I having sex, any sex, gay, straight, dyke, queer, hot, tame, dirty, safe, overwhelming sex, right now?

I am much more concerned with this.

I admit that for the longest time I took offense when people assumed I was gay. It made me feel unfeminine, ugly, overweight…horrible, embarrassing to admit, this, as it is counter to every fact I know about what being a lesbian actually means. But I didn’t understand that for most women, being loud, being confident, being unafraid to speak up is a rare quality. And many lesbians, who are so “different” (i.e. uncaring as to the judgment of men) are a lot like me. Or I’m a lot like them. Whatever. So that so many people think that I’m a lesbian, they are actually responding to the fact that I am brassy and funny and “unlike” so many other “women.”

Obviously, “man” and “woman” are, as terms, completely obsolete. But why go there at this late hour?

I have realized, too, that a part of me has always wanted to be a lesbian because there always seems to be that moment, the sudden ah-ha, standing in a bookstore, waking up in the morning, walking across a bridge, kissing a girl, brushing hair, when everything suddenly makes sense. Oh! I like girls! So that’s why I’m different! I like that idea. I like thinking that in a single instant the truth gives context to a feeling of difference that has lurked throughout an entire lifetime. I am attracted to that moment. But mine has not yet come.

So I’ve gotten a lot off of my chest. Hope you aren’t too shocked, and if you are still reading, I want you to know that Virginia Woolf has changed my life, and The Death of the Heart took me three weeks to read because it was really boring but also entrancing, in a very strange, sort of masochistic way. And maybe you should check out J.T. sometime. He sure beats The Indigo Girls. Figure of speech, of course.

Most respectfully yours,

Alanna Coby

p.s. You do have the most sensible shoes I have ever seen.