Obsessed with Submission

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Over 4 years wasted for a degree and Ophelia can honestly say it wasn't worth the hype. Another rejection letter rests on the glowing screen of her running on fumes ACER laptop from 2016. Every day Ophelia applies to a tech company and every day she receives a new emailed rejection letter in answer. She applies to an upstart that is 'urgently' hiring and within the same hour of applying is rejected. Internships? No, Ophelia apparently isn't good enough and has been told by recruiters to 'stop applying' for the paid ones. Ophelia lays on her side on the lumpy hole ridden couch that she and her roommate/best friend, Erica, bought last year from Goodwill.

Her LinkedIn profile is fleshed out with all her achievements in school, her 4.2 GPA, and her bachelor's in Computer Science and Engineering from Vanderbilt University. One of the top prestigious private universities in the southern United States that she worked her butt off to keep her place year after year. Her four years there were paid by scholarships and grants from the state and the numerous essays she spent hours writing in her dingy dorm room. The rejection letters started before Ophelia even got the chance to walk across the stage. Companies hungry and eager for recent graduates were posting job offers in January, with the starting month being May. It's now late August so Ophelia has basically given up on her working for Google pipedream. 62 rejection emails later and her optimistic outlook for finding a job this year is about to be crushed.

Not even Nashville's shoddiest insurance company wanted her. Her application for a filer was a joke between Ophelia and Erica. The two laughed that if they didn't take her, then no one would. The sharp heat of embarrassment that licked up her spine when the owner personally called her to say that Ophelia's qualifications were too much, and her talents would be useful elsewhere is still a sore spot.

She shifts on the couch, her foot sliding off to nudge the screen of her laptop. The same blaring words that all the emails have in common, "we are sorry to inform you" and "due to increasing" Ophelia groans sliding the rest of the way off. She joins her old as mold laptop on the smelly carpet that has cat pee stains from Erica's demon child, Sir Whiskers. Said cat is sunbathing on the windowsill, not a care in the world. Ophelia wishes she could be a cat. If only to be fed three times a day and sleep. She stands from the floor, her bones popping uncomfortably loudly in the quiet of the apartment. At 24 Ophelia feels like she's 34, bedraggled and tired of everything. The laptop buzzes as its fans kick into overdrive the low battery warning notification in the corner of the screen blinks insistently up at her. She grabs the nearby charger and rushes to get it plugged in before the computer goes off. If her laptop battery percentage goes below 30% it will automatically go off. Stops working and won't turn back on until it's been on the charger for 8 hours. It made her save her coursework as she worked, too many almost finished assignments disappeared, so Ophelia remains cautious.

She moves toward the kitchen. It's nearing 6:30 and Erica will be off work soon. Since Ophelia has no job and her savings account is running on empty, she has turned into a glorified housemaid. After graduating she lost her job at the university bookstore in June after summer classes had begun and she was no longer labeled as a student. Fortunately for the two young women, Erica had landed the one and only place she applied to. Erica had the highest scores in the nursing program at Vanderbilt and is now working at one of the best hospitals in the city. Her paychecks are the only thing keeping their rent paid and food on the table. It's only right for Ophelia to pay her back in the only way she can. By playing housewife, which she hates doing even though Erica says it's okay.

Steak and potatoes are on the menu tonight. She sets to work preparing the potatoes, peeling and soaking them in ice-cold water. The steaks had marinated overnight and should be nice and seasoned before going inside the oven. Sir Whiskers appears at her ankles, rubbing against her leg. He yowls and jumps up onto the counter. "Alright your Highness," Ophelia goes to the pantry for his canned food. She grabs a chicken n' gravy blend and a saucer. She plates it and sets it near him since Sir Whiskers refuses to eat on the floor. "Your dinner sir." She bows and laughs when the cat dives into his food. The beep of the oven signaling its pre-heating is finished causes Ophelia to jump. She wraps the steaks in foil and places them on the bottom rack. Then the potatoes follow olive oil and spices mixed in and placed on the top rack.