Alex - Chief Chaos Navigator
Brad - Master of Résumé Sorcery
Meet Alex.
Alex isn’t just another job seeker scrolling through endless listings. He’s a protagonist — the central character in a slow-burn corporate thriller titled “Still Pending: The Résumé Chronicles.” Somewhere between a faith-based drama and a LinkedIn horror story, Alex has become an unwilling expert in Applicant Tracking Systems, rejection emails, and the psychological warfare that is writing yet another cover letter for a company that ghosted him in 2019.
He’s been in the trenches — not metaphorically, but emotionally, spiritually, and professionally. You know those 2:00 a.m. scrolls where you stare at job postings like you're reading ancient hieroglyphics that somehow demand a master’s degree in being psychic? Alex has lived there. Blanket-wrapped like a haunted Victorian widow, he’s refreshed LinkedIn more times than is medically recommended, all while wondering if God put him on mute just to be funny.
Alex has applied to positions that require “entry-level passion” with “director-level accountability.” He’s rewritten his résumé so many times it now qualifies as fan fiction. His cover letters are deeply personal works of literary art — each one reading like a love letter to a company that will never respond. He’s sat through interviews where he had to explain his “five-year plan” to someone whose own five-year plan clearly included quitting by Thursday.
And yet, despite it all, Alex keeps showing up.
He networks with hope, applies with precision, and prays with a kind of semi-polite desperation that only someone in month six of job hunting can truly understand. He knows every rejection is just spiritual traffic control, rerouting him away from employers who put “like a family” in their culture slide deck but run their office like a mildly toxic reality show. When they say, “We’ll keep your résumé on file,” Alex nods — knowing full well that file is the professional equivalent of a black hole.
Still, Alex pushes forward. Not because he’s desperate — but because he’s dangerous. Dangerous in the best way. He’s self-aware, spiritually grounded, slightly unhinged, and chronically overqualified. He’s the type of person who can sell ice to Eskimos and then restructure their logistics department for fun. He’s what every team needs but most ATS bots can’t recognize.
And one day soon — the email will come. The real one. The one that starts with, “We’d love to move forward,” and ends with PTO, dental, and a Slack channel that doesn’t make you question your life choices. When it does, Alex won’t just accept the offer — he’ll step into the role like it was made for him. Because it was. Because God may be late, but He’s never sloppy.
Until then? Alex is still applying. Still praying. Still laughing in the face of rejection. And when the breakthrough happens, the “Thrilled to Announce” post will not be humble. It will be a victory cry, a spiritual mic drop, and a gentle reminder that faith, perseverance, and well-formatted résumés always win in the end.
Because Alex is coming.
And this time, he’s bringing Word and PDF.
Meet Brad.
Brad is a mouse.
Not a metaphor. Not a startup founder with a quirky nickname. An actual, literal mouse — small, scrappy, emotionally supportive, and currently living in your sock drawer. He first appeared around week six of unemployment, right after your third recruiter ghosted you mid-process and just before your fourth “final interview” turned into a mysterious “we’re going in another direction” email. Brad didn’t knock. He didn’t ask to be there. Like most things in the job hunt, he just showed up. Uninvited. Undeniably present. Emotionally wise beyond his species.
You noticed him during a 2:00 a.m. scroll through job listings with titles like “Culture Evangelist” and “Digital Prophet.” While your brain spiraled in despair, Brad calmly gnawed on an old cover letter and looked at you like, “You doing okay, champ?” That’s when you realized: this wasn’t just any mouse. This was a support rodent. A tiny, cheese-loving therapist with no student debt and no interest in corporate jargon. He didn’t want to “circle back” or “touch base.” He wanted to keep you grounded while you questioned whether “highly motivated” still applied to your soul.
Brad doesn’t have a LinkedIn. He doesn’t believe in KPIs or productivity hacks. What he does believe in is snacks, warm laundry, and your ability to survive capitalism with your dignity and sense of humor intact. He’s been through things. You think rejection emails hurt? Brad’s been dodging glue traps and navigating baseboards since birth. He knows resilience. He’s practically the emotional mascot of your job search now — a whiskered little warrior who squeaks softly whenever you refresh your inbox and see nothing but promotional emails from Canva.
He doesn’t give career advice. He gives emotional clarity. When you’re sobbing over a rejection from a company that promised “a family atmosphere” (but gave cult vibes), Brad’s the one crawling onto your desk, placing a crumb next to your hand like a peace offering, and whispering in his tiny Brad voice, “Their PTO policy was trash anyway.” And he’s right. Brad’s always right.
And one day, when it finally happens — when the call comes, when the offer lands, when your email dings with actual good news and not another “Thanks but no thanks” from a company with bean bag chairs and broken boundaries — Brad will be there. Watching. Nodding. Holding a comically tiny cardboard sign that reads: “Told you so.”
Because Brad may be a mouse.
But he believes in you harder than any recruiter ever has.