The truth is, I had sent my resumé to one hundred and forty-seven of the top graphic design houses in the world and not heard back from a single one.
I’d explained to each of them how my personal artistic vision had been shaped, my early success in the industry, (starting with an art contest I’d won in fifth grade), my belief in taking risks and breaking rules, and my recent graduation from the Laurentian Academy of Graphic Design. My introductory letter stretched to just over thirty-two single-spaced pages. It included how I had received a B- at Laurentian College and why it should have been an A. I underlined—three times—that I had no paradigms when it came to my chosen art. No paradigms at all. Still, I heard nothing from any of them. This fact I attributed to a lack of courage on their part. I should have known they’d find my curriculum vitae overly intimidating. C’est la vie. Their loss.
“Maybe you should think about applying for a job at the local paper,” my mother suggested at least once a day.
“Just have to get your foot in the door, my man!” my father repeated often enough he must’ve thought it was one of the original holy mantras.
The local newspaper? A crude and despicable suggestion, in my mind, eclipsing mere insult and verging on threat: I should’ve had my parents arrested. After all, these were the same parents that had called me a prodigy every day since fifth grade, had raised me to believe I was an artistic genius sans précédent. But as they were providing me with shelter, sustenance, and spending money, I was forced to reconsider. So I did my familial duty, completed and submitted The Georgetown Herald’s online application form, and prayed it would go ignored. Within the hour, an email arrived asking me to come in for an interview the next day.
The universe hates me.
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