There comes a time in everyone’s life, normally when you are looking to change things, that you are forced to face up to your CV.
The polished version of your education and work history that doesn’t say apathetic waitress or universally majorly clueless.
Short dates and places you would rather forget, because what can you really accomplish in 21 years?
A patchwork middle-class family and a muddled youth and disdain for high-school left me without the series of hot-winded, rattling extra-curricular. I wonder if I should put my suicide attempt of two mental breakdowns on this thing. Or maybe the abuse I got from my father.
No, that translates to empty job titles and a lack or accolades.
Perhaps my travel and brief flings with European cities I fell madly in love with yet dizzied in the concrete container.
What about being a hopeless romantic and being completely terrified of love?
No, perhaps not.
Ability to make puns? Or little children smile? Or memories entire poems? Cheer up depressed friends? Zany sense of humour? Ability to swear in Russian? Freestyle rap? Cook a meal in 10 minutes?
No

The start platform for a life with no direction or destination unknown?
Well, whatever sounds better…
An impression of me. In black ink and paper.
Stupid CVs