the tuenti Miro, and I am one of the multiple events .... Of these with thousands of people going and going .... that perhaps hundreds
This actually had these numbers of people .... Just about to dispose
I decided to open and read
And heaven an article from the master of the pen, Arturo Perez Reverte.
In many years, if ... but today more relevant than ever ...
Just today I asked a travel agency and let my CV.
A CV like that kid from the pack.
A curriculum that can be in English, French or English, but that will end in a drawer when not in the trash, and not because it is bad, but because the small and medium businesses can not afford to pay you and the great entrepreneur does not but you recognize you daddy's boy.
Thanks Arturo. Anyway ire
leaving my CV through drawers and spending a few euros to print.
This event if it was worth, thanks Marian.
Arturo Perez Reverte: The Weekly, February 9, 2003
THE BAG AND THE CURRICULUM.
rains at times, and Madrid's cold and dreary.
umbrella pass across the window of the library of my friend Antonio Mendez, the bookseller in the High Street. We are there to talk, smoking a cigarette, surrounded by books as Alberto, the employee thin, tall and quiet, he has not read a novel in my life and intend to - "or lack that makes me" bastard grunts usually order the latest news. In those comes a young man with a backpack, and stays a bit apart, the timid, waiting for Antonio and I make a pause in the conversation.
Finally, in a low voice, asks Antonio if he can leave a resume. Sure, replied the bookseller. Leave it. And then the boy out of the bag a bundle of pages, each with their passport photo stapled, and gives him one. Thank you very much, he mutters, just as shy as before. If ever has work for me, begins to say. Then shut up. Smile a little, puts everything back in the pack and goes outside in the rain. Antonio looks at me seriously. Come by the dozen, he says. Boys and girls. Each with its curriculum. And you can not imagine what level. Graduates in this and that, courses abroad, language. And look. You have to fuck.
I catch the folio of the hand. Fulano de Tal, born in 1976. Degree in History, courses of this and the other in Paris and Italy. Three languages. Places, companies, dates. Trash count to seven papers, from those of three or six months and then to the street. I look at the passport photograph, a sketch of a smile, look confident, perhaps in hope. Then I look across the window, but the young man has disappeared from the umbrella in the rain. Will, I suppose, going into other shops, bookstores or wherever, pulling his moving resume of the pack. I return the paper to Antonio, who shrugs, helpless, and stores it in a drawer. He recently had to lay off an employee, unable to pay two salaries as is the patio. Before you close the drawer, I can see more pictures of card stapled to pages: boys and girls with the same look and smile at the same point borrárseles mouth.
Spain goes well and all that, I think. The whore Spain.
Suddenlysadness as I slid into cold drops, and the day becomes more bleak and gray. What are we doing with them, damn it. With these guys. Antonio looks at me and lights another cigarette. I know you think so. What are we making all these young people of the pack, which after the illusion of studies and career, following the dreams and efforts, they are walking the streets delivering curriculum in which leave the last remnants of hope or a degree in History as it is, eight years of GBS, five vocational training courses, personal and family sacrifices to learn languages \u200b\u200bin schools that fail and leave you lying after paying tuition.
Helplessness, traps, rat-sac, unscrupulous employers squeeze you before you back to the street, politicians who look the other way or decorating beautiful, unions with more than demagoguery and idleness shame. Jobs
garbage, unemployment garbage, trash resumes. 
And when the miracle occurs, the requirement is that you're ready for anything:
shop bitch, bitch, business and mouth closed to survive until they get kicked out, and if you have a nice ass, to be possible, let the boss as sovereign. Even so, boy, girl, you have to thank por los cambios de turno arbitrarios, los fines de semana trabajados, las seiscientas horas extras al año de las que sólo ochenta figuran como tales en la nómina. Y si encima pretendes mantener una familia y pagar un piso date con un canto en los dientes de que no te sodomicen gratis. Flexibilidad laboral, lo llaman Y gracias a la flexibilidad de los cojones se han generado, dice el portavoz gubernamental de turno tropecientos mil empleos más, y somos luz y fan de Europa. Guau. Gracias a eso, también, un chaval de veintipocos años puede disfrutar de la excitante experiencia de conocer ocho empleos de chichinabo en tres o cuatro años, y al cabo verse el la calle con la mochila, buscándose la vida bajo la lluvia. Partiendo over and over again from scratch. Labor flexibility. Damn it. Euphemism and how much shit. Let's see what happens when so much bent, broken siding and go all to hell, and instead of resumes what that guy be carried in a backpack Molotov cocktails.
