The Résumé is Honest. The Rest is Performance Art.

Corporate life ended for me three years ago. I walked out after the soft click of a conference call, thinking something dangerous, possibly illegal, and promised myself two things. First, that joy would have my full attention. Second, that I would never again schedule a meeting about scheduling a meeting. That promise held, until the grocery store politely reminded me that neither joy nor principle can be exchanged for cheddar.

So, I re-entered the workforce. Not with hope. With intent. Somewhere between revenge and research.

Every morning begins with a small ritual involving coffee, voluntary swearing, and the quiet polishing of a résumé that is one hundred percent honest. I do not lie. I do not pad. I do not invent credentials, titles, degrees, or software familiarity. If I do not know the system, the system will soon know me. My résumé is a blunt instrument. It is not optimized. It is a truth document.

If you’ve followed me for more than a sneeze, you already know how I feel about Human Resources. It is not a profession. It is a spiritual prank. Layer in AI-powered hiring tools, personality quizzes that assign you a woodland animal, logic assessments that appear to have been generated by an escape room, and video interviews conducted by software avatars that blink too slowly, and we are not looking at a hiring process. We are looking at an experiment in human patience.

Most people quietly endure it. Some write polite opinion pieces. I operate under a different philosophy. It’s a personality quirk.

After my initial foray into things I think I want to do, I respond to everything unsolicited. If you spam me, I spam you back. If you invite me to apply, I do. Every single time. It is not a résumé. It is a homing device. I apply like it’s my duty. Any role the algorithm pushes my way, I push back. You offer? I accept. You hint? I appear. If I receive an email that begins with “We think you’re a perfect fit,” I consider that a declaration of war. It was a mistake to pair adolescent AI filters with “One-Click Apply.” You opened the door. Chaos walked in with a cup of tea and no references.

I follow four rules. They are non-negotiable.

One. The résumé is honest. I have done what I’ve done, and not a pixel more.
Two. I fabricate nothing. No invented titles, no made-up training, no stealth MBAs.
Three. I apply to three jobs a day that I am in no way qualified to perform.
Four. Nothing medical. No syringes, no scalpels, no soft-spoken roles involving other people’s moist interiors.

All interviews take place over phone or video. The people on the other side remain professional, serious, and determined to trust the system that sent them my name. I arrive with caffeine and curiosity, and I treat the entire affair like an unsanctioned performance piece.

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Corporate Counsel Interview, elapsed time: two minutes fifty‑three seconds

Apparently an algorithm noticed the phrase “no criminal history” on my résumé and decided I must be a lawyer. The recruiter arrived in virtual mahogany, determined to trust the machine that matched us. I set a tiny pink squeaky hammer on my desk, just in frame. Court was in session.

She cleared her throat. “Describe your major litigation wins.”

I tapped the hammer. Meep. “Objection, compound question.” That was when her left eyebrow attempted orbit.

“Which law school conferred your degree?”

Meep. “Assumes facts.”

Her jaw, sorry, facial hinge, locked. “Are you or are you not an attorney?”

I leaned in, solemn. “If your robo‑gatekeeper had been doing its job, would either of us be stuck in this virtual broom closet?” The hammer squeaked a verdict.

Her mouth opened, closed, leveled a glare like some dragon, then she terminated the call with the same courtesy one reserves for phishing emails. My applicant dashboard still lights up orange: UNDER CONSIDERATION, which is frankly beyond even my absurdist ability to explain.

Assistant Brewmaster Interview — elapsed time: just over three minutes

The email invitation arrived with the breezy confidence only software can muster: “Our system identified you as an ideal fit.” I applied. They responded. I clicked the Zoom link mostly to see what “ideal” looks like these days. The head brewer appeared, stainless tanks looming behind him like patient bouncers.

He opened with the obligatory warm‑up. How long I’d been in the industry, which commercial systems I’d mastered. I admitted my entire brewery experience consisted of a plastic bucket in an apartment closet. One batch, half an accident, zero survivors. There was a small, almost respectful pause.

Rather than dive into malt ratios, he shifted to the real question: “So what made you hit ‘apply’?” I told him the truth. An over‑eager algorithm spotted something in my resume and urged me to reply, so I did, and it marched my résumé onto his calendar. By the look in his eyes, he believed me.

He glanced to the side, probably at the HR dashboard still insisting we were a ninety‑four‑percent match, then back at me. “I think the system got ahead of itself,” he said, voice perfectly calm.

I raised my mug of coffee. “If it helps, the bucket did ferment. Just… unpredictably.”

He managed a short laugh, thanked me for my honesty, and closed the call before either of us had the chance to pretend this could work. A minute later the applicant portal updated to Process Ended. For once, the algorithm learned something in under four minutes.

Senior Seismic Interpreter Interview — duration: 12 minutes, 41 seconds

When I received the invitation, I assumed it was earthquake spam or a phishing attempt targeting people with low blood pressure. But no. A real utility company had reviewed my résumé, noted its complete lack of geophysics credentials, and decided I was the ideal candidate to interpret seismic data for critical infrastructure.

I joined the call mostly to verify that this was real. It was.

Three people appeared, all serious, all wearing fleece, and all ready to discuss the earth’s behavior. We spent ten full minutes going over my job history. Not one role I’ve ever held even orbited the planet where this job lives. I described working in sales, writing, consulting, hospitality, and something that involved a scooter and a whiteboard. They nodded solemnly, took notes, and continued as if I had not just delivered ten minutes of geological irrelevance.

Then the questions began.

“Can you walk us through your experience with subsurface imaging and stratigraphic interpretation?” the lead asked.

I said, “Of course. When I skip stones, I observe the ripples and draw conclusions about the planet’s emotional state.”

No one blinked.

Another ventured, carefully, “Are you currently working in geology?”

“Not professionally,” I said. “But emotionally? I’ve always felt fault lines.”

Still, they pressed on.

“And your experience with seismic acquisition systems?”

“I don’t have any,” I said. “That’s part of why I’m here. To find out what those are.”

The third person scribbled something down. Probably: Confirm still awake.

Finally, the lead spoke. “We’re going to pause the process here.” His tone was gentle, like someone breaking up with a person they met during a tornado.

“Our system may have overmatched your profile.”

“I understand,” I said. “But just to be clear, this was not my idea.”

The call ended politely, efficiently, and about nine minutes too late. I’ve received no follow up , which I assume is either a technical error or a metaphor for continental drift.

Director of Risk Analytics Interview — duration: 14 minutes, all of them regrettable

This was not a job title. This was a dare.

Director of Risk Analytics sounds less like a position and more like something whispered in a boardroom during a fire drill. I don’t know what it means. No one does. But the algorithm insisted I was “highly aligned,” so I showed up, coffee in hand, hoping to learn something.

The recruiter appeared on screen looking like a man who’s been slowly dying in the same ergonomic chair since 2017. Tie clip, close-cropped haircut, expression of deep personal offense. He started with immediate irritation, which set me off a bit, if I am honest.

“Let’s start with your background in quantitative modeling,” he said, already tired.

I replied, “I once had a gut feeling about a parking garage and avoided a $48 ticket. I consider that predictive analytics.”

He blinked. Once.

“Can you walk me through your experience with operational risk?”

“Certainly,” I said. “If something feels cursed, I say it out loud. That's the framework.”

He sat very still. Then came the real question. The one that kicked off the fireworks.

“What made you think you were qualified for this role?”

“You emailed me.”

“No,” he snapped. “Our software emailed you.”

“Then maybe scold your software. I was just minding my business, trying to open a can of soup, when your algorithm came sprinting into my inbox shouting ‘perfect fit.’”

“That doesn’t mean you just apply.”

“Sir, it literally had a button that said ‘Apply Now.’ What exactly did you think would happen?”

That’s when the arguing began. For the next thirteen minutes, we debated the philosophical implications of clicking a button. He said the invitation wasn’t personal. I said neither was my application. He said I should’ve read the entire job description. I said his job description used the phrase “multi-tiered risk mindset” and that’s not English. He said I was being combative. I said he was defending an email written by a toaster.

He told me, flatly, clearly, without hesitation, that I was an asshole.

This is the first time I’ve ever been called an asshole by a recruiter. I wasn’t offended. If anything, I was proud. I’d finally achieved a measurable outcome in a job interview.

He ended the call by closing his laptop with what I can only describe as practiced fury. I’m assuming there will not be an offer forthcoming.

Head of UX Research Interview — duration: 3 minutes, 15 seconds

I don’t remember applying for this role, which made sense about thirty seconds in.

The interviewer arrived in a softly lit space that looked designed by a Scandinavian algorithm. She smiled, introduced herself, and said, “I’m excited to hear more about your experience with usability studies.”

I nodded, stalling. “I once spent six hours trying to cancel a subscription service. I took notes.”

A short pause. She tried again. “What methods do you typically use when testing user flows?”

“Mostly confusion,” I said. “If I can’t find the button, I assume no one else will either.”

She didn’t laugh, but she did tilt her head slightly, the international sign for something has gone wrong but we’re being polite about it.

“Have you managed any research teams?” she asked.

“I led a group text once where we tried to agree on pizza toppings. Two people dropped out.”

“Well,” she said, “this may not be the right match, but I appreciate your time.”

“Likewise,” I replied. “I learned a lot about myself just being here.”

She gave a brief, neutral smile and ended the call.

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I have no idea how far this goes. Every time I think the algorithm has learned its lesson, it promotes me to a new level of absurdity. Yesterday I was invited to interview for a senior tax advisory role for a logistics firm I have never heard of, in a city I have never been to, involving software I’m fairly certain does not exist.

The calls keep coming. The recruiters remain serious. The AI remains convinced that I am the missing piece in industries I have never touched. I continue to answer. I continue to show up.

It’s not a job search. It’s a documentary.

Tomorrow I’ll apply for a role involving maritime compliance, enterprise architecture, and possibly bird handling. I will bring the same honest résumé. I will speak plainly. I will confuse someone. And the machine will smile in its quiet, flickering way and say, once again, “Perfect match.”