fiction

Cover Letter I had No Guts To Send

Dear digital team at an over priced, overrated fashion brand,

I am writing to you in regards of the writer-related job listing that I have found in my fat, one thousand three hundred and two letter inbox. The truth to be told, I am writing this desperate cover letter in the comfort of my own couch. You might think this is because :

a. I am a freelancer

b. I am pretending to be a freelancer as I am jobless.

I am concurrently eating a chicken burrito, with an extra guacamole, ordered via a millennial food delivery app, to which I have connected my parents credit card, that was given to me in case of emergencies. Sex And The City is streamed on TV and Carrie Bradshaw, whom I am blaming for my continuous failure as a writer who cannot afford Manolos, is speaking Italian. I am currently residing in Milan with a Latvian resident card and a Russian citizenship, which also means I will be a gigantic pain in the ass to file documents for. Let me make this easier for you: drag my e-mail to the bin, pass the job offer to someone with a simpler resident story to tell.

Shall you actually continue on this painful task of reading, let me brag about a fancy fashion school I was privileged and rich enough to attend. I regret my parents spending the money on such luxury still. But hey, if you would like to see my BA certificate, unlike my student peers, I have actually did not plagiarise on my thesis (true story).

My CV attached below, which I have spent hours perfecting to look more creative than needed, although I am not a graphic designer nor do I aspire to be one, nor should you expect me to be one, is full of ‘content writer’ listings. Signifying that for the last few years I have lost my journalist integrity towards digital wordsmith, whom deliberately misspells and hashtags every third word, diffusing any writing skill left in me with words like ‘squad’ and ‘good vibes’. 

Shall you decide to grant me an interview do not expect me to show up wearing any pieces from your brand (simply cannot afford). Reference letters upon request (not going to happen).

Best,

The Stalker Outside Your Fashion Show

Magic

A young kid waving his tender 'Ciao' from a yellow tram, and you waving back.

A Russian woman saying 'bless you child', smell of incense and faraway home in your lungs at an orthodox church. 

Different pastry a muslim lady has given you to try, at the bakery downstairs, because you only go there at your lowest. She has two lovely sons.

Blisters. You have new shoes.

Enjoying your coffee. Not smoking for 31 days.

Buying plastic star dust at the stationery shop, run by two elderly men, whom probably bet occasionally on your occupation. 

Bits and pieces of it lay around here and there, and if you look with curiosity, maybe you will be awaken enough to see it.