Three Rejections and a toasted bagel

Let me tell you about the time I got rejected so efficiently, it felt like Amazon Prime delivered it straight to my soul—same-day shipping, no signature required.

So there I am. Monday morning. I’ve showered. I’m moisturized. I’ve made peace with the fact that I talk to myself in the car like it’s a podcast. I even brewed the good coffee. Life is fragile, but I’m holding it together with oat milk and unrealistic optimism.

I open my laptop.

DING.

First email of the day.

Subject: “Your Application – Status Update”

It’s from this company I applied to three months ago called QuantumPivot—a name that screams tech startup but is actually a mildly aggressive paperclip distribution firm. Their logo looks like a DNA strand doing the worm.

I click the email. You already know the script:

“Dear Alex,

We appreciate the time you took to apply. While your qualifications are impressive…”

BOOM. Rejected.

Whatever. That was the job where they wanted someone to “wear many hats.” Which is always code for “do five jobs and never ask about a raise.”

I can take it. I’ve been dumped by better.

But before I even close the tab—

DING.

Second rejection.

Same company. Different job title. Also includes the phrase “we had a highly competitive pool.”

Now I’m squinting. This is feeling personal.

And then…

DING.

Third rejection.

At this point, my Gmail is acting like it’s in a toxic relationship with this company and I’m the third wheel. Three rejections in under 90 seconds. No warning. No stretching. No warm-up.

Just corporate heartbreak speedrunning through my confidence like:

“Hey Alex, thanks for playing!

Also—UNSUBSCRIBE FROM YOUR OWN DREAMS.”

And I’m just sitting there. Mouth open. Coffee cooling. Hope dying.

I imagine the recruiter—probably named Kayleigh with a silent “e” and a job title like “Human Vibes Coordinator”—scheduling these at 6:59AM just to catch me off guard.

She probably made a Canva template for it.

“Add sparkle. Add fake gratitude. Add sentence about how ‘we hope you continue to follow our journey’ like it’s a boy band and not a company that sells ergonomic mousepads.”

Oh, and it gets worse.

They CC’d me on one of them by accident.

So now I know there’s a spreadsheet somewhere, and I’m just Row 37, Column D:

“Regret. But not deeply.”

So I did what any emotionally unstable job seeker would do.

I stood up.

Looked out the window.

And whispered to the sky:

“Is this… is this my Roman Empire?”

Then I sat back down.

Googled “How to start a candle business.”

And put on lo-fi music to mourn the part of me that still believed in two-week response times and human decency.

Because this wasn’t just rejection.

This was rejection choreography.

And I didn’t even get a sticker.

But it’s fine. Because one day, Kayleigh’s going to be scrolling LinkedIn, and see me post:

“Honored to announce I’m now CEO of a company that auto-rejects no one and pays everyone in compliments and therapy reimbursements.”

And I will not follow her journey.

I will report it for spam.