Jessica’s constant gloating about her grad position is like using the party potato salad to relieve your yeasty itch: it makes her feel good but leaves everyone else feeling a bit sick.
In her mind, being offered a $40k entry-level finance position has redefined the notion of human achievement. In one fell swoop, she has ascended her peers and waits patiently for a statue to be erected in her honour.
Like most Wall Street ballers, Jessica occupies the top 1% of her parent’s dwelling. Without the need to slay the demons of rent and bills, she is free to spend her salary on power suits, heels and leather document holders.
Basically, she dresses exactly like the sort of shit head who says she will “pencil you in”, despite her entire day consisting of making coffees for man-gunted fat cats who leer at her juicy spreadsheets.
Most of her time is spent sending people Linkedin requests and being Facebook’s biggest shiteater. How does one achieve this? By “checking in” to work every morning and showboating about work she’s barely involved in:
“Getting ready to value a client’s assets for a float… think I’m going to need a coffee… or three! haha #9figures #watchingourfigures #justanotherdaymakingdeals #justfinancethings”.
It’s exactly the sort of status that leaves her friends looking at their screens like Elliot Stabler looks at an especially heinous New York crime.
It’s now Thursday and Jessica attends a corporate wankfest sundowner. A meet & greet that will allow her to demonstrate her “value” and what a strong female role model she truly is.
That is until she has necked 2 glasses of mid-tier wine and sends the 2IC a Linkedin message strongly implying she would like to go at the man’s soggy booze-noodle like an Asian businessman going at his last dart.
Sometimes to stand tall, you have to get on your knees. Lo & behold, she is already winning. She is given permission to use a colleague’s office for 2 days while he is on leave.
Given the sheer number of photos she takes of “her” office you’d think she was working as a commercial real estate agent. What’s the point of having a personal, enclosed workspace if you don’t let the haters know? Clearly she was born without the segment of her brain that gauges whether people give a toss or not.
A knock on the door disturbs her online gloating. It’s a young sparky who needs to do some wiring. She barely acknowledges his blue-collar existence as she grunts and moans every time the pleb asks her to move. She fires off a text to her friend, “omg gross this tradie is totally making my new office stink like sweat”.
Nah he smells like someone who earns twice as much as you, poser.