The Fed

Can't Enter Corpse of Roald Dahl

The search for the ideal job is unsuccessful - aren't we surprised

Liz Gorinsky

Reality has begun to sink in. I will eventually have to extricate myself from the sheltered world of academia and get a somewhat practical job. The thought frightens me, because being a worker drone means having to give up some of my greatest dreams and find something to do with my life that someone is willing to pay me for. After surveying the terrain, I have come to the sad realization that, contrary to the mantra that was repeated to me countless times during my grade school education, it simply isn't true that everyone has an equally good chance of being whatever he or she wants to be.

Some jobs will never be open to certain types of people. Don't get me wrong, things are a lot better than they used to be. I'm thankful that we've moved beyond the days of yore when the only thing a young female could look forward to was being chained to a granite slab in an underground cavern waiting for whatever monster she had been fed to to quit drooling on her flowing white sacrificial garb and get on with the bloody massacre. Her family would probably receive a nice stipend when it was all over, but that was hardly enough compensation considering how bad the average dragon's breath was.

Even so, the number of modern professions that I have no hope of ever entering is pretty staggering. I'm not talking about denial of opportunity based on obsolescence ("I'm afraid your asbestos installation skills just aren't very useful to us."), practicality ("What do you MEAN you're not willing to go shark diving in that suit made of raw meat?"), or gender ("I regret to inform you that you have been removed from consideration as our prostate cancer poster model."). I'm a lot more up in arms about the really cool jobs that I was simply never in contention for.

For instance, It's not a viable option to be a superhero. After reading early issues of Power Pack, I, too, wanted to roam the galaxy and learn how to dissipate into a fog bank. Or to shoot balls of pure energy from the palms of my hands. While other little kids fawned over their New Kids on the Block sleeping bags,  I would ecstatically engineer my ideal super power, alter ego, and crime-fighting costume. Many were the days when I would yearn to come across a nest of radioactive spiders or serendipitously be at ground zero of a misplaced nuclear blast. Unfortunately, none of those things ever happened to me and, to my great consternation, I have remained stubbornly mortal.

For some bizarre reason, my plans to grow up to be someone who already exists have also been thwarted. My application for the position of Neil Gaiman was rejected' without explanation. Roald Dah;'s representatives have the ridiculous notion that he's dead and would prefer to remain that way. When I went in for the Max Cannon job, the interview went really well, but then they told me I didn't have the "look" they were going for. The people in charge of Liz Phair raised my hopes enormously when they actually called me down to the office for a tour. Unfortunately, it was not to be. I'm still myself and I'm damned bitter about it.

As disappointing as my initial job searches have been, all is not lost. I'm still eagerly pursuing careers in such lucrative fields as "building glass boxes for mimes to live in" and "paranormal entity from the great beyond" (which would suit me just fine as long as the chains aren't too heavy and I get a lunch break every few eons). As a last resort, I could always reply to that want ad I saw for the "ruler of the universe" position. The pay wasn't great, and the medical benefits sucked, but it could still be good for a few laughs. At least until Liz Phair's office calls me back.