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Old Gold & Black

Old Gold & Black

The Seniority Report

Seniority reporter Elaine Best attempts to make some final cuts on her resume.
Seniority reporter Elaine Best attempts to make some final cuts on her resume.

By: Elaine Best, Editor

This is The Seniority Report, where I investigate the hard-hitting mysteries of Wofford’s campus, revealing conspiracies, unveiling the truth and discovering the shocking secrets of this institution. This week, I look into the dreaded task we must all take on around this time of year: the job hunt.

They* say there is nothing more refreshing than a clean sheet of paper—unless that’s what your resume currently looks like. Ah, yes, the tabula rosa of the resume – the time you sum up your entire self-worth in the span of a few bullet points. How are Wofford students even supposed to begin such an arduous and narcissistic task? I took to the streets to find out what was really going on with this resume business.

*I assume “they” are the same people who think yogurt is better than pudding and enjoy staring at blank walls in their free time.

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After crossing the street to Krispy Kreme, picking up a dozen hot, glazed donuts, I quickly ran back to the Wofford bubble and marched into The Space, our very own career center.

If The Space didn’t have answers for me, then no one would.*

*Well, maybe Google. Or my mom. Or a Magic 8 Ball.

Upon entering the domain of The Space, I was instantly hit with a wave of underachievement. Surrounding me were young entrepreneurs who had crafted their own businesses and were thriving on their monopolies. A deadly cycle of thoughts began to run through my head: why hadn’t I thought to do other people’s laundry for monetary services? Why hadn’t I crafted postcards that helped starving children in foreign countries learn to read?  Why didn’t I own any business casual clothing aside from my nice pair of sweatpants?

Wiping the cold sweat off my brow, I made my way to the main room of The Space. Quirky furniture was scattered before me. I was instantly drawn to a chair that looked like a trampoline. Eagerly skipping over to it, I threw myself down on the chair only to be swallowed into it like a fly in a Venus fly trap. I screamed for dear life, hoping someone would come to my rescue. It was only when I began to wave my blank resume like a white flag did someone reach out and pull me from the death chair.

I didn’t recognize my savior, I only knew that he was aggressively shaking my hand.

“Nice to meet you. Have I seen you before?” He pointed at me, smiling. “LinkedIn, right?”

“Probably not,” I told him. “I mostly stick to tweeting.”

He laughed and I joined in with him until his eyes turned red. My stomach turned to ice as he glowered over me.

“If you don’t have a LinkedIn, you have no future. Network or never work!” He then ran through a wall that I assume broke something in the stairwell of Phase V.

Shaking off my strange encounter, I made my way to the offices in the back of The Space only to be tripped up by a couch. I tried to scoot around the couch, but the end piece kept moving. I screeched at what I had just witnessed—this was no couch.

It was witchcraft.

Divided into three separate, odd chairs, some evil designer at a furniture outlet had thought it would be clever to make a couch and then take away anything that actually made it comfortable. Yet I could not help but be amazed at its grotesqueness, like watching someone at Zach’s ask for extra mayonnaise on their tuna sandwich.

My voice was hoarse at this point from all my screaming. Granted, I had recently gone through a binge watch of Victorian era shows, so melodrama was in my system. Still, I couldn’t help but pretend to faint when I made it to the hallway of offices.

Students crawled on the floor, weeping. A junior off to my left kept muttering about internship deadlines, the dark rings that enclosed her bloodshot eyes wrinkling as she cried in despair. A first year ran up to me, grabbing onto my investigative journalism trench coat.

“You gotta get me outta here,” he said in a hushed, shaky voice. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Help.” He looked around, perhaps searching for answers from the Unknown. “Help!”

I threw the disgusting first year onto the junior, the duo falling to the ground.* What sort of hell hole had I entered? I ran down the hall, only stopping when a group of Space advisors ran out.

*I only say “disgusting” to keep up my reputation as a big, bad senior. I hope I didn’t emotionally scar the kid. Maybe I’ll send him a ring pop to his CPO box, or the new Bieber CD. That’s what kids like nowadays, right?

“I can’t just find you a job,” they screamed in unison.* “Why haven’t you even tried to find something? And why do you refuse to seek help when we’re right here? We’re literally right here!”

*I found this to be immensely creepy until I learned that The Space also wants to branch out into an a cappella group and had been working on matching pitch for the past 36 hours.

I blinked and then they were gone. I am not sure the advisors ever existed. Perhaps they mingle with Air Terrier in the clouds, always within reach but never quite connecting.

My experience taught me that we are all doomed in the job hunt – that even if you make your kill, there’s still blood on your hands. I wish you all the best of luck as you attempt to secure your future plans. As for this reporter, I’m going to stay on the streets like I always have.*

*The streets meaning Krispy Kreme.

Over and out.


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