why do i do this job

anonymous asked:

I think the Numa cosplay is a much better fit than the Hera one, face shape-wise. Both look awesome btw

Wow, fuck you. I didn’t ask you. If you follow me, unfollow me and go fuck yourself.

I know you know that you are an arsehole for saying this otherwise you wouldn’t have hidden behind anonymity. Do you not think that I know that i don’t look like Hera? That I don’t know that I have a stupid heavy square face instead of a pretty dainty face? That maybe it gives me anxiety and that I worry about it and it upsets me? That maybe the point of cosplay is fucking Celebration and skill, not looking exactly like a character?

I worked SO hard on my Hera, and it is near impeccable. I am constantly trying to improve it and my make-up and my presentation when I am out in costume so that I can be the best possible representation of the character that I love, and share that as well as I can with children and fans and creators. My work gets compliments and praise which really helps me as I fight my rock bottom self-esteem. But good job, congratulations. You have fucking destroyed that work because I don’t look enough like my favourite cartoon character.

Go fuck yourself and never ever ever send a message like this ever again, you insufferable twat.

The foreshadowing in Tyrell and Elliots first scene together


Tyrell tells Elliot it will be fun working with him, and also admits he misses being a tech.

Tyrell and Elliot end up working together on the hack, and it involves lots of computer work, that Tyrell has missed.

Tyrell using the expression “my heart is still there” (there being the job Elliot is doing) could also be foreshadowing for him falling for Elliot, his heart ends up with him.

When Tyrell walks away Elliot says to himself, “I often dream of saving the world”. Much later, at the arcade, Tyrell asks him “why did you do it?”. Elliot replies “I wanted to save the world”.

Tyrell refers to the night of the hack as the moment he and Elliot “became gods together”.

And before they have even meet, at the very beginning of episode 1. Elliot talks about those “who play god without permission”, and one of the silhouettes in the background is Tyrell.

JESSE hands MIRANDA his resume, which she ignores. She finally looks up and gives JESSE her patented once-over, top-to-bottom, every molecule dissected.

MIRANDA: What was your major?

JESSE: English, with an emphasis in journalism.

MIRANDA: Why are you here?

JESSE: Because I think I could do a good job as your assistant and -

MIRANDA: Why are you here?

JESSE is so taken aback by her directness that he blurts the truth.

JESSE: My resume got me a meeting with Human Resources and they said it was this or Auto Universe.

MIRANDA takes this in, pleased by his honesty.

MIRANDA: You don’t read Runway, do you?

JESSE: No.

MIRANDA: And before today, you had never heard of me, had you?

JESSE: No.

MIRANDA: And you have no style or sense of fashion.

JESSE: That depends on - 

MIRANDA: That wasn’t a question.

She finally picks up JESSE’s resume. Glances.

MIRANDA: Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Northwestern. Impressive.

JESSE: I also won a nationwide competition for college journalists with my series on the janitor’s union that -

MIRANDA holds up her hand.

MIRANDA: That’s all.

JESSE, startled by the abruptness, keeps talking.

JESSE: - that uncovered the exploitation of the -

MIRANDA stares. JESSE abruptly stops talking. Heads for the door. But then he stops and turns.

JESSE: Okay, listen, I may not know too much about fashion, but I’m smart and resourceful and I will work very hard and - 

And MIRANDA says… nothing.

JESSE: And that’s it. That’s what I wanted to say. And now I’ll just… bye-bye.

10

Star Trek + Social Commentary (context in the captions)

anyone else kinda terrified you’ll never be able to hold a job in the future because of your mental illness

So I was looking at YOI screenshots today...

And I made quite an interesting revelation. 

Here we have Viktor Nikiforov. Russian. Pale skin. White as the freshest snow on the highest mountains of Russia. Nipples are a shade or two darker than his skin tone.

Clearly, this man never sees sunlight. 

That’s okay though. We love you and your pale, perky ass anyway, Viktor.

Ok. Now… adversely… 

Christophe Giacometti. Suisse. Fabulous as f-. Skin glowing golden as a ray of fucking sunshine. 

BUT WAIT! 

His nipples, what color are they? 

Pale? Pink? Peach?! I don’t know. All I do know is that clearly, Christophe’s nipples are way way lighter than his skin tone. 

… 

My revelation? 

Christophe Giacometti gets spray/fake tans. 

And I mean, it makes sense. Look at how fabulous this man is. Clearly he would be the type to sip champagne on a Sunday afternoon laid out on a beach chair while air drying a fresh spray tan by the poolside. 

Now… You may be asking yourself: Is this information important? 

No. It absolutely is not. 

But I came to this conclusion while half awake this morning and felt compelled to share it with all you lovely people in the fandom. 

Do with this information what you will. 

Whoever writes People magazine captions deserves a Pulitzer. Solid prose. I spot four hyphenated words and three adverbs (loathsome things in grammar) and somehow I just believe in this sentence entirely. Mostly because I have a sense that the person writing this really believes it too. And that’s what’s getting me out of bed every day—that someone else believes in what they do as much as I do. I have a job, you have a job, we all have a job. Do your job well. That’s why we get out of bed. We gotta pay the bills. If you’re not feeling up to it, my advice: take two Aleve® and keep it moving (in your low-key bomber). Fake it ‘til you make it.

anonymous asked:

I know you probably have a lot of requests with the gods and monsters - but would you ever do an Ares based one?

Zeus’s mistress Io remains in her form of a cow, guarded by Hera’s servant Argus, and Hera is content.

She will remain in that form until her death. Hera hopes that lying with her husband was worth the sacrifice.

Zeus won’t speak to her, unwilling to admit the cow is actually his lover and ensure her death, and equally unwilling to stand against his wife to try and rescue her. Hera has him just where she wants him, and it can’t last, it never does, but she intends to enjoy it while it does.  

Then Artemis comes to her, gold and fierce. She never flinches away from her queen, staring her in the face as if she is nothing more than another of her huntresses. If Hera did not hate her for being her husband’s daughter, she thinks she might actually like the girl. “Io has a destiny,” she says, “you must let her go.”

“I don’t care for her destiny,” Hera says idly, “especially when that destiny involves getting with my husband’s child.”

“She is to give birth to a new line of kings,” Artemis hisses, “to be the wife of a death god, to be mother goddess of a whole new people. She is not meant for us. You must let her go.”

“I am Hera,” she says, “I am Queen. I must do nothing.”

Artemis growls, hand twitching for her bow, but Hera only raises an eyebrow. Let the girl try. There are few that can stand against her, and the huntress is not among them. Artemis lets out a low breath and says, “Do it, my queen, and I will grant you what it is you most desire.”

“Some peace and quiet?” Hera asks.

“A child,” she answers. “Let Io go, let her fulfill her destiny as a goddess of the Black Land of the Nile. If you do that, I, the patron goddess of childbirth, will personally use every ounce of power I possess to ensure you conceive and deliver a child of Zeus.”

Hera’s eyes narrow, “Neither my power nor his has ever been able to achieve this. What makes you think you are any different?”

“We all have our domains,” she says, “just as you cannot command the sea, just as your husband has no power over the art of weaving, so can I ensure a healthy child when you could not.”

She taps her fingers against her throne. They call her a mother goddess, though she’s raised no children. Hephaestus may be her precious son, but he doesn’t know that it was not her that threw him from Olympus. Very few people know that. And she didn’t raise him regardless, that honor belongs to Hecate.

A child, of her and Zeus. A child she can raise.

“I accept,” she announces. “You may take her, and Zeus may fulfill her destiny.” She leans forward, brings the oppressive weight of her power to the fore and lowers the pressure of the air until Artemis is left shivering. “Know this, Patron Goddess of Childbirth. If Io births a son of Zeus before I do, I will travel to the Black Land of the Nile and slay her and her children with my own two hands. Not even Hades will be able to put her back together again.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Artemis says, unable to keep her teeth from chattering.

~

Hera is true to her word. She allows Hermes to think he’s tricked Argus and to steal Io away. She pretends to be outraged at the audacity, at the pure white cow traveling to the sands of the Nile.

Artemis is true to her word. Hera lies with Zeus, like she has so many times before, and a child grows inside of her. One day she stands before her husband and brings his hand to the swell of her stomach, “This is your child.”

Something almost like happiness steals across his face. She forgets, sometimes, that they hate each other only as much as they love each other. After so much time together, many would think it would be one or the other. They simply opted for both.

Artemis is there during the birth, her easy confidence more comforting then Hera will ever admit. Delivering Hephaestus was easy compared to this. She screams and cries and Hestia’s hands on her shoulders are all that keeps her from collapsing and begging someone to just cut the child from her. She doesn’t think she can die in childbirth, not with Artemis between her legs. She wishes she’d thought to ask before this began.

But she does not die. Her son is born, just as healthy and beautiful as Hephaestus was. “Well done,” Artemis says softly, placing the squirming child into her arms.

Zeus touches her hair and kisses his son’s forehead. “We shall call him Ares.”

“Very well,” she agrees, so tired her eyes struggle to stay open.

She hands her son to Hestia, and finally allows sleep to take her.

~

Ares grows into the spitting image of his father. Same copper-red skin, same silky black hair. Her husband keeps it short, but her son lets his grow long. The minutes Hera spends every morning brushing his hair are among her favorite.

He has an eager smile and a soft heart. Hera doesn’t know where he got it, since it’s certainly not from her or Zeus. Demeter tolerates his bumbling after her, though any time Kore attempts to meet her cousin Demeter’s temper frays. Poseidon allows Ares to explore the depths of the sea with a minor sea god acting as his guide. Apollo plays for him, and Artemis teaches him to hunt. Zeus’s lightning doesn’t burn his son, and when storms rage he takes Ares to the top of Olympus and teaches him to throw lightning bolts.

Hera selfishly does not allow Ares to go to the underworld. She knows he would be safe there, that Hades would protect him as he protected Hephaestus, but that’s precisely why she won’t allow it. They got to raise one of her sons already. It pains her to share Ares with them now.

He is happy, and kind, kinder than anyone would expect a child of her womb to be.

“He must choose a domain,” Zeus rumbles, watching Ares shoot arrows with perfect accuracy.

“He is a child still,” Hera says, “let him remain so for a little longer.”

“If he does not choose a domain,” Zeus warns, “one will choose him. We are gods. We must be gods of something.”

She flickers her gaze at him, and he scoots an inch away from her. “He is a child, and for now a child he will remain. We are not Demeter. We shall not thrust the responsibilities and power of a deity on a child who is not prepared for it.”

Zeus disapproves, but says nothing more.

Her son will be the god of something patient, something soft. The god of lost children, of heartbroken suitors, of forgiveness. Something where his gentle heart will aid him instead of hurt him.

She traded her happiness for power. She doesn’t regret it. But Ares doesn’t need to do the same – she’s the most powerful goddess that still walks the earth. He’s her son, and he’ll want for nothing she can provide.

~

Ares is almost fully grown, long hair reaching his hips even braided, and the strength of his limbs is such that he can keep up with Artemis on her most vigorous of hunts, that he can throw his father’s lightning bolts halfway across the world.

He’s been to every place, and met every god of the earth, sea, and sky.

Except for one.

 It’s not hard to find the volcano. He’s strong enough and old enough to take care of himself, and his mother does not worry when he says he’s going to the earth. But he did not tell her where, precisely, on the earth he was going.

He has strong legs.  It’s easy for him to climb to the top of the volcano. He’s almost made it there when something grabs his shoulders, stilling him. He turns, and stares into a single large eye. “What are you doing?” the cyclopes growls.

“I’m looking for Hephaestus,” he says, “He’s my brother.”

“My master has many brothers,” the cyclopes says.

Ares shakes his head. He is not the product of his father’s fling with a sprite or mortal. “I am Ares, son of Zeus and Hera. Just as Hephaestus is. I came here to meet my brother.” The cyclopes hesitates. He asks, “What’s your name?”

“Brontes,” he answers, surprised.

“Brontes,” he smiles, “I just want to meet him. I’ve never met him before. I won’t linger.”

There’s a moment where Brontes looks conflicted, and Ares tries to look as unassuming as possible. “Fine,” he huffs, “but don’t get angry at me if he dips you in lava.”

“That would be fun,” he says brightly. Lightning doesn’t burn him. So far the only thing hot enough to cause him pain is Hestia’s fire. He probably could go swimming in lava.

Brontes looks at him as if he’s slightly unhinged. He just keeps smiling.

~

There are more cyclopes underneath, and bright glittering machines that Ares can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. “Who are you?” someone demands, and a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him away from a boiling vat of lava that he’d been peering into.

He looks up at a man taller and broader than he is. He has skin almost as dark as the obsidian of his volcano, but lighter eyes. They are the color of dark amber, of molasses. “We have the same eyes,” he says happily.

Hephaestus releases him instantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” he asks, “The mortals talk of you. No one else will. But you’re my brother, right?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, “Does Zeus know where you are?”

He shrugs, taking a step closer. His brother takes a step back. He wonders if he’ll have to treat Hephaestus like a spooked horse.  “Father doesn’t keep track of where I am. Mom know I’m on earth.” Hephaestus flinches, small enough that he almost doesn’t notice. “We have her eyes, you know.”

He can’t stop starring at Hephaestus’s skin. They do not work like mortals – Demeter, Hestia, Zeus, and Hera are all different shades despite coming from the same parents. But – Ares looks so much like his father. Kore looks like Demeter. Yet Hephaestus looks nothing like their father. He can see their mother in him, in the eyes and shape of his jaw, even in how angry he is right now. He looks like Hera does when she’s about to lose her temper, lips pressed into a thin line and the careful stillness of his shoulders.

“I wasn’t trying to make you angry,” he says plaintively, “I only wanted to say hello.”

Unlike their mother, Hephaestus lets out a deep breath and seemingly all of his anger along with it. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

Hephaestus kicks him lightly in the shin, the pretty gold and copper of his metal legs catching his eye. “You have legs, and I do not. Hera did not throw you from Mount Olympus as she threw me.”

Ares looks hard at his brother’s face. The stories say his mother threw her son away for being ugly, but he seems just as handsome as any other god Ares has seen. His features are strong and chiseled, and he supposes that could have looked unattractive on a baby, but –

– his mother loves him. Hera loves him with a ferocity only matched by her temper, she loves him at his most mischievous and irritable, loves him when a stray thunderbolt sets Demeter’s hair on end, loves him when even Artemis and Apollo have grown tired of his antics, loves him when Athena can tolerate no more of his questions. He is her son, and so her love comes without conditions.

He doesn’t think Hera would have loved his brother any less just because of how he looked.

He also knows that if he tries to say that, it’s likely Hephaestus will push him into a lava pit.

“Well, that’s not my fault,” he says, “If you don’t want us to be brothers, can’t we at least be friends?”

Hephaestus’s face softens. He looks like their mother then too.  He crosses his arms, “You can’t tell your parents.”

Our parents, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Obviously. Where did you get so many cyclopes?”

The last remnants of his brother’s stern façade shatters as he throws back his head and laughs.

~

Ares is very near maturity, more adult than child, and his father constantly pressures him to choose a domain. He usually quiets with one sharp glance from his wife, but the fact remains that it is time for Ares to take his place among the gods of the pantheon, to have temples in his name and worshipers like a proper deity.

He doesn’t really want any of that.  He wants to continue hunting with Artemis, learning with Athena, building with Hephaestus.

His brother lets him help out in his workshop sometimes, if he’s very careful and does exactly as he’s told. Otherwise he sits on a table, legs swinging, and watches his brother work and tells him about what he does in the time in-between visits. He talks about their mother enough that Hephaestus doesn’t flinch at her every mention, which Ares can only consider an improvement. Sometimes Brontes will stand beside him and they’ll eat sweet buns together.

Unfortunately, all things, good and bad, must come to an end.

~

There are two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, who grow tired of hearing of the golden boy of Olympus, who grow jealous of his kindness and his beauty.

These two giants sneak onto Mount Olympus in the middle of the night, sneak into Ares’s room, and kidnap him. They’re not stupid enough to attempt to kill him. Instead, they stuff him into an urn, and seal him inside. Ares rages and fights, uses every trick he can think of to break out his prison, but none of them work.

Stuck at the bottom of the urn and seething, he can’t help but think that if he’d listened to his father and chosen a dominion he might be strong enough to free himself. But he didn’t, so he can’t, and instead he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Days turn to weeks turn to months. He knows they’re looking for him. He knows his mother will tear apart the whole universe attempting to find him if nothing else. But – what if they can’t? What if he’s stuck in this urn for the rest of eternity?

In his darkest moments, his sorrow turns to rage. He is a god, son of Hera and Zeus, how dare they do this to him?

Then, one day, the urn opens.

Hermes peers down into it, then his face splits into a grin. “We’ve been looking for you!” He reaches down and hauls Ares out, and for a moment all he can do is blink at the glaring sun. Then his vision clears, and he sees they’re in the midst of a battle. The giants are fighting against the gods, against his parents, against the twins, against his brother. It’s bloody carnage, but – he can’t help but feel touched that all these people came looking for him. “Almost everyone offered to help find you,” he says, “but Hera didn’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves trying to sneak into their territory.”

No sooner has Hermes finished speaking than a giant barrels into his mother with sickening snap. Her shoulder slopes at a grotesque angle, but it hardly even slows her down.

“I have to help,” he says, a desperate urgency filling him. They came to help him, and now they’re getting hurt. That’s never something he’d wanted.

“Ares, wait!” Hermes calls out as he goes hurtling toward the battle. He doesn’t wait. Fighting on the ground can only do so much good, they’re strong but they’re outnumbered one hundred to one. He darts to Artemis, twisting around the bodies she’s throwing over her shoulder. “I need your bow!”

“Ares!” she says joyously, then, “What?”

“Trust me,” he says, “give me your bow.” A giant comes running towards them. Artemis flips him over her shoulder while continuing to stare at him in confusion. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so worried. “Artemis, please!”

She hands over her bow. She moves to give him her quiver of arrows as well, but he’s already moving away from her. Next it’s to his father, who’s hurtling lightning bolts towards the swarm of giants crowding him. They’re deadly, but only so effective at close-range. He grabs a sizzling lightning bolt right from Zeus’s hand, the only being on the planet who could do that and survive, and keeps running. “Get clear!” he calls out over his shoulder. “Everyone move!”

He runs up past Hermes, needing to get to high ground for this to work. “Get everyone off the battlefield,” he says to Hermes. “Now.”

Hermes pulls a face, but by the time he makes it to the top of the mountain, the gods have shaken off most of the giants, are far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry.

He can do this. He’s Ares, the son of Hera and Zeus. He’s been trained in archery by the great huntress herself. He breaths in, and strings his father’s lightning bolt like an arrow. He pulls it back, breaths out, and lets the lightning bolt fly.

It lands in the middle of the battlefield full of confused giants. With a great clap of thunder and a burst of light, they’re all gone.

All that remains of the traitorous giants is a crater.

The gods are approaching him, his mother at a limping gait that makes his chest ache. Zeus gets to him first, grin stretched wide as he grabs him by both his shoulders. “My boy! That was magnificent!”

“Thanks,” he says. The smell of charred flesh is in the air, and it makes his stomach roll.

They kidnapped him. They stuffed him in an urn for over a year. They hurt his mom.

That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it. He never wants to do anything like that ever again.

“This was destiny,” his father says enthusiastically, and Ares has no idea what he’s talking about. “This is what you’re meant to do, son.”

He stares. He hopes it’s not.

The other gods are still at the bottom of the mountain. Artemis and Apollo each have one of his mother’s arms slung over their shoulders and are helping her up the mountain. Hermes and Hephaestus aren’t far behind.

He’s never seen his father look so proud of him. There’s a leaden pit in his stomach he can’t explain.

“In honor of my son’s great feat,” Zeus booms, his voice carrying across air, speaking with the voice of the king of the gods so his words become law, so they spread to every corner of the world, “I declare him Ares, God of War.”

Ares can’t breathe.

This isn’t what he wanted.


gods and monsters series, part xvii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

I’ve been thinking about this PewDiePie situation and the right-wing response to it a bit, and I think it pretty well demonstrates the social rot at the heart of capitalist socialization.

Whenever somebody gets called out for using blatantly offensive and discriminatory language, the far right always thinks that the response is entirely performative. Everybody that is offended isn’t REALLY offended, we are just performing offense in order to play nice with “respectable” society. In other words, we are all just playing a game, and the end goal is getting ahead. Everything is a competition. Social justice is just another element in the game, and some people choose to take that route in their quest for power and social capital.

You can call this out as childish and selfish, because it is, but it also points to a much deeper problem in the way capitalism teaches us to think about morality. We are taught from a young age two conflicting narratives - that we should be kind and respectful to other people, but also that everything is a competition and you should do everything you can to be the absolute best. Those two ideas are incompatible with each other. You can’t simultaneously respect other people while viewing them as your competition in the game of life. So people normally end up predominantly recognizing one side or the other - we either decide to be especially kind and respectful to each other, or we decide to view everything as a competition.

For the people who choose the second option, morality becomes part of the game. Nothing anybody does is actually genuine - it’s all just a ruse to push other people out of the way. That’s why they can’t believe that there is anybody that actually doesn’t want to be offensive. That there are people who aren’t offensive when nobody is watching. The only reason you would ever be respectful in the first place is because other people are watching - because you’re trying to get ahead. It’s all a competition.

Some prominent parenting strategies exacerbate the problem. “You can’t do that because I say so.” If no reason is ever given, why are people doing anything? Because it’s a game. Just like school, just like work.

And the truth is, we all play that side from time to time. Everybody lies on their job application. Everybody acts way too happy to be at work. Everybody pretends to like their boss more than they do. Everybody plays nice to the horrible customers that you would otherwise strangle. Even people who choose to be genuinely kind are forced to play the game on occasion as well. And the people who chose the competitive view of the world recognize that.

So we can certainly mock and laugh at the people who can’t figure out that there are actually good people in the world who do good things out of genuine compassion. It is a laughable position. But it’s also baked into all of us from a young age in capitalist society. And that’s the real tragedy.

You sent your CV and got a call back? Congratulations. But now you’re facing the most frightening part of the job: the interview. 

No honestly, I’m joking, this isn’t as bad as we were told. And here’s what I learnt from it.

1. Stay NATURAL

You almost have the job. Don’t try to impress them too much, just stay faithful to who you are. Wear casual clothes, not a lot of make up, tie your hair (or at least brush it) and if you are wearing nailpolish, check that it isn’t cracked. Honestly, wearing cracked nailpolish during an interview just says that you’re messy and not organised. Don’t forget to smile, no one would like to hire someone always grumpy!

2. Do your homework

Remember the description of the job? Well that’s very important, state all the criterias that was asked in the description and make sure to tell your interviewer that you’ve got all the qualities the job requires. 

Learn about the company, when was it created, do they have other shops, what do they sell/do, what are the prices and what type of people will you have to face. Google is your best friend for that.

3. Get ready to answer questions

It’s D-Day, you’re sat at the table and the interviewer is here. Get ready for the questions. Nothing exciting to be fair. “Why do you think you’ll be good at this job?” “What brought you to apply to this job?” “Did you know about *the company* before?” 

And then they will ask you about your skills. Learn your CV and don’t hesitate to repeat it and add more details. For exemple: “I know how to work in a team very well because ….*add previous experience*”. They sometimes ask you how people would describe you or what are your flaws/qualities. Be honest. 

If you don’t have any experience, put everything on your skills and link them to school. Interviewers know if you have experience or not. They will also understand that you’ve been focused on your studies and that’s okay. Don’t try to hide it, be proud of it.

4. Interview your interviewer

Your interviewer will ask you a lot of questions but at some point he will ask you if you have any questions. And now, honey, it will be your time TO SHINE. Fire away, honestly it’s very embarassing to have nothing to say, it’s a bit like “oh well, just taking the job, not really fussed about anything”. Find something! Are you allowed nailpolish, do you have a uniform, what time do they open, are they closed during holiday, what will be your salary, do you have days off, will you have a training session, etcAsk everything on your mind, it will show your interviewer you’re at least interessed by the job.

5. Don’t rush anything

The interview is almost over. The interviewer might ask you when you can start. Never say “right now”. Say “tomorrow” or “next week” instead. Wait a bit, talk to your family/friends about the job to make sure you’re making the right decision. If you can, wait until you can have at least a glimpse at the contract because sometimes the interviewer doesn’t tell you everything about the job (how many hours, how much you’re paid). Wait for them to call you back. And when leaving, you can mention “that you’re looking foward to hearing from them again soon”!!!


I hope this masterpost was helpful and that you’ll nail your interview. If you have any other questions, you know where to find me! Reblog to help your fellow friends if you thought this was useful

Check out my other masterpost on how to improve your résumé or my masterposts.

- Aly xo

Just while we’re on the subject of spelling and grammar, I do appreciate when people point things out to me. Sometimes I do make mistakes, sometimes it’s autocorrect. Other times it’s a pun (forever the curse of a pun lover) and it goes over other people’s heads. Other times I’m writing something off the cuff and in rapid fire and I’ll miss things here and there in the quick scan I do before moving on to the next thing I need to do on here so it feels like I am not ignoring people. 

But here’s the thing, people sending me “wow you’re an editor and you type like that? lol” messages? Is a dick move for several reasons and I’ll tell you why…

First of all: I am not at work when I am on tumblr. I might as well be my second full time job at this point, but I am not in actual fact on the clock when I am here.

I am not at work when I am texting someone unless I am texting them as a client. I am not at work when I am having conversations with people online, unless they are my client. 

You can correct my grammar or my spelling if you want, but don’t make some derisive comment about me being a writer and an editor and not being able to type and make it into a thing like “wow I guess  could be an editor too if it’s that easy” just because you’re being pedantic with someone you are having an informal conversation with. 

It takes more than the ability to spell and get your grammar right 100% of the time to be an editor. It is not an easy job to be an editor. Which is why when I am not at work, my typing goes to absolute shit because I don’t have the excess energy to expend on that level of concentration when I am not working. Or sometimes just plain don’t give a shit. Like, I do not care. My typing is imperfect when I am talking rapid fire, sometimes with multiple people over multiple platforms at once. Woopdiedoo.

And when you’re mean about it? When you say? “I can’t help it, I know it doesn’t matter but it annoys me when people can’t spell”? 

You’re not only admitting that you don’t care enough to regulate behavior which you know is rude to others, you are also being ableist and quite possibly racist as well. 

Not everyone finds it easy to write, and I don’t mean that in the creative sense, I mean that in the very basic sense that some people with learning difficulties struggle to read and write. 

This does not make them less intelligent than you. It does not make them less brilliant than you. It does not mean they give any less of a shit about something important than you do, or are any less deserving of your respect and civility than some asshole who is an asshole but who knows how to use an em dash correctly.

I’ve dropped clients who had good grammar and spelling, but I just plain couldn’t deal with their attitude, and stuck with the people apologizing over and over for how much work I have to do on their manuscript because they know. They know they’re not as good as everyone else and the social stigma around it is so overwhelming it undermines everything they will ever do.

Other people may also not come from the same culture as you, speak the same languages as you, or have had access to the same opportunities you have had. If their way of communicating is understood but doesn’t conform the views of intelligence, quite frankly instilled by White Nationalism and Colonization and you tear them down for not conforming to your limited world view of propriety? They’re not the problem here, you are.

Someone’s ability to spell does not indicate their value or worth, or even the time they have put into something. I see so many rebuttals on this hellsite and on other places, where people go out of their way to invalidate the words of other people simply because they mixed up “your” and “you’re”, even though it doesn’t stop their meaning from being understood (and honestly it’s most likely auto-correct and you know it), but hey I guess it’s just way easier to tear someone down based on an arbitrary and false idea of assigned intelligence and societal worth based on their use of English grammar than it is to come up with an actual rebuttal. Boy aren’t you a hero.

So just…like…I get it, I get you see something and it’s incorrect and part of you may niggle at it and yes there are times when “perfection” is not only expected but required and spelling and grammar is important (or else I wouldn’t have the job I am very good at). But just, I dunno, quit being a dick to people because you’re a pedantic asshole who wants to feel superior. 

At the end of the day we’re all just sentient atoms hurtling towards the same unknown. The least you can do is be kind.