giving my resume to my future husbands, don't give a fuck

from by Beth May

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lyrics

I was performing poetry at open mics long before people my age thought it was edgy but long after it gripped the edges of mainstream culture
I am always the last to know, the first to act
It is detrimental to my cool, It is influential to my ego, which I keep in check on a chess set made of glass but the aim of the game is to kill your king so wait I think I got off topic

This is my resume I guess you already know that by now, hahahaha
My objective is to get hired at a place that manufactures and distributes a fine meat product. P.S. Thank you McDonald’s for your time.

My shift manager asked me what my five year plan was. I do not have a five minute plan. I have five minute smoke breaks that I have wasted by not taking up smoking. My dad walked in on me smoking a cigarette and made me smoke a whole pack and now every time I have sex, I fuck a guy like my dad will walk in and make me fuck 25 more I’m both tired and adventurous I am loud and so scared I am cold to the touch and if you hold me too long please don’t please don’t I get lonely at night but I wouldn’t have it any other way and when you hire me I won’t mean to make you jealous I just like to brag about places I may have never been things I may never do let me do them with you.

I have a skill set as particular as Liam Neeson in Taken I am a humorist I am a downer. Sometimes at night my thoughts are like skittish dogs that cross my path, I know that if I try to call them back they will not come. I like to rollerblade, bike, box, hike, be with my friends and family, write thank you notes, and lie.

I will not consume any of the food product. I am little sensitive about my weight.


I have taken on my grandma in the boxing ring when she mentions how big I am getting because I am not her little girl around the middle anymore ding ding I’m just a south paw black sheep I will never be able to explain the way my brain sometimes feels like it is on fire the way I am, I am this family’s personal arsonist the way that when my head is damp and cool underwater, the whole world seems to want the fire again you want the fire yeah please hire me.

You want letters of recommendation? You want a cover letter? I got you covered.

I wrote a letter to my parents when I was six saying I was running away, that very day and it was all their fault because time outs aren’t for good little girls.
I packed a teddy bear named Squirrel in a Barbie backpack that I strapped over my armpits like a turtle shell. I yelled, “Looking for a new family!” up and down our suburban block trotting along for 50 yards before I got homesick and hungry for pudding and when I shuffled back through the front door I’d forgotten what I was punished for in the first place. Mom and Dad, those doo doo heads, they never did read that letter.

I wrote a letter to Oprah when I was thirteen asking her to invite me over and make me as famous as Meryl Streep. I wrote, you don’t understand, lady, this is my destiny. I am too frequently a liar to not make it a career. She didn’t write back. And her tongue never clutched the vowel letters of my name in BETH MAY. There are 7 letters in my name if you cut out the one my parents gave me.

I wrote a letter to a boy I had a crush on in the eighth grade to tell him I had a crush on him. I intercepted a letter from a girl with the same first name as his last name which informed me I had no chance. I wrote a suicide letter that night to practice writing suicide letters.

I wrote a letter to UCLA accompanied by a letter of recommendation I wrote myself, juxtaposing my smarts and struggles because privilege had turned me evil because evil is an anagram for live because you can’t live in my nice house with nice parents and not be evil for wanting a college application-worthy struggle because that night I sat down to write my evil suicide note if they rejected me, update: they did, and I fell asleep because I had a bed to fall asleep in.

I wrote a suicide letter on my 23rd birthday. In that letter I wrote a letter to explain to the boy that I no longer loved that I had run out of metaphors for the texture of his hair. I wrote, please do not consider yourself broken, you are just a mirror with a crack that I see every time I look at my reflection. I wrote a letter to my mom and dad, please do not consider yourselves failures, you raised a child who made decisions independent of you. What successes you are. I wrote a letter to my brother. Please do not consider me gone. Please do not consider me gone. Please. Please.

Please note I’ve attached a phone number at the bottom of the page so you may reach me for an interview. I hope you can reach me. I have no area code, I am just defending this area below my collar bones. I am building up my contacts like making any human connection is a contact sport please contact me please follow up please check to make sure my ribs rise and fall with my breaths sinking into old fault lines like enemies that fall back into this familiar bedroom every time, please hire me so I can claim experience and wealth please fire me so I can claim experience and wisdom, please look at this resume so I can know I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive I was the last one to know but the first one to apply. I’m alive. Please consider me.

credits

from the family arsonist, released February 10, 2015
MUSIC
"Direct to Video " by Chris Zabriskie and “All These Simple Things” by Lee Rosevere”
Available on the Free Music Archive
Under CC BY license

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about

Beth May Phoenix, Arizona

I'm a writer/actor living in Phoenix, AZ with an additional poetry habit...Sorry that my voice creaks.

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