Recipient Name

You ever wake up, roll over, check your phone, and see an email with the subject line, “Exciting Opportunity!” You squint at it, heart racing for half a second because maybe, just maybe, the universe finally came through. You think, “Wow, this is it. My big break! I’m about to become VP of Global Happiness and get free lifetime croissants!”

Then you open it.

“Hi [Recipient Name],”

Excuse me? [Recipient Name]? The audacity. I don’t even get a fake “Hi Alex!” or “Hey Superstar!”? Just Recipient Name, like I’m a forgotten character in an abandoned script? At this point, even those scam emails from princes in faraway countries feel more personal.

I keep reading, and apparently Nichole from Carvana Recruiting is thrilled to announce this opportunity in Elyria, Ohio — a place I’m pretty sure I only know because I once read it on an exit sign while Googling if gas station sushi is an acceptable dinner choice.

Let’s be real. I don’t remember applying for this job. Maybe my sleep-deprived alter ego did it during a 3 a.m. panic scroll. Maybe it was Future Me trying to set up a backup plan in case this “full-time professional overthinker” gig doesn’t work out. Or maybe my cat walked across my keyboard and accidentally sent my résumé to Carvana along with an order for 30 cans of tuna.

The email proudly lists perks like:

• “5-day work weeks with 2 days off.” Wow, so revolutionary. Never heard of that before.

• “Competitive pay.” Competitive with what? My Monopoly money collection?

• “401k with company match.” Sounds great, but considering my current net worth is two half-burned candles and an expired gift card, anything is a step up.

• “Generous PTO — 104 hours your first year!” Enough time off to finally process that embarrassing thing I said at a party in 2009.

• “Paid Holidays — you even get your birthday off!” Finally, I can sit in bed and cry about aging in peace, on the company dime.

• “100% paid employee medical insurance premiums.” Because you’ll definitely need therapy after getting ghosted by 999 other jobs before this one.

Then it says, “Come start a new career with us, where every team member is valued.” Oh really? If I’m so valued, why am I [Recipient Name]? Where’s my gold-embossed greeting? Where’s my confetti gif? Where’s my personalized Spotify playlist that screams, “We get you, Alex!”

Look, at this point, I don’t know if I applied, if they found me on LinkedIn during a full moon, or if they’re just sending these to everyone who’s ever accidentally clicked “Apply Now” instead of “Learn More.”

All I know is that now I have a solid backup plan for when I inevitably drop my phone in the toilet during an existential crisis or decide to move to the woods to start a squirrel yoga retreat.

So, thank you, Carvana. Thank you for this automated love letter to [Recipient Name]. Thank you for making me feel like a random bingo ball rolling around in the great cosmic job lottery.

Will I apply? Who knows. Will I keep this email as comedic relief? Absolutely. Will I continue to contemplate why I even have a résumé at all when I was clearly destined to be a professional napper? 100%.

Onward, friends. May your inboxes be ever entertaining, may your “We regret to inform you” emails come with confetti, and may you always remember: even if you’re just [Recipient Name], you’re still a legend.