Dear Hiring Manager,
Ah, sorry, it is hard to break the habit. Let me start over.
Writing a book is hard work. Especially with framed photographs of ninety-five year-old journal editors who are no longer alive staring at me from the wall. Not only are they not a lick photogenic, this also adds an incredible amount of pressure to my routine. I turn to my left and there they all are, mocking my endeavors and judging my lunch choices. I have decided to write my daily quota of two pages at work, knowing that I would not get enough writing done at home in between episodes of Law & Order and that I am powerless to write once my cat decides to sit on top of my laptop computer. There are far less distractions here and a much smaller refrigerator. This is a promising routine, but sometimes my fingers have an off-day and no amount of finger calisthenics can encourage them to produce better writing. But I am determined, having already produced fourteen pages of drivel, which is the longest amount of consecutive drivel I've written since college.
While I am here at work speaking stupid English to boring North Americans and being agitated by nearly everything, my more successful older brother is off taking pictures of steaks and climbing mountains in Argentina. Which happens to be what Argentina is famous for: mountains and pictures of steaks. As envious as I am, as soon as his vacation is over, he will have to face the inevitable return to a luxury high-rise apartment and five-star restaurants in New York City, just like the rest of us. My hope for him is that he brings home a South American girlfriend so that we can add some Latin flair to our very pale family. In return, I will buy him a pair of socks for Christmas, because that is what he requested. Of course he will only be receiving one of the socks, and the second sock will be sent to the U.S. Government, in accordance with the gift tax act, which also claimed half of my Christmas bonus. ¡Feliz Navidad!