I feel like a pot of day-old oatmeal

Waiting to hear on jobs . . . . . . I'm starting to crust up around the edges and form a slight puddle, like leftover oatmeal in a pan left by mistake overnight on the top of the stove. Maybe if I were reheated and stirred vigorously, I could be delicious again (with lots of sugar, milk, raisins and a pat of butter) but if left to sit like this much longer I'll start growing into some experimental chemical warfare. I can feel the mold trying to form internally, like the gentle tickle of an incipient herpes ready to burst forth in interview-killing magnificence.

Song cue: Oliver!

Who will buy this crappy old fart face?
Such a guy you never did see!
Who will tie him up with some red tape
And put him at an old PC?

Who will buy a chubby with herpes?
He can type and make copies, too
Me oh my, he'll even do filing
And maybe kiss an ass or two

He used to work for Uncle Sam once
Now he's a piece of used TP
If ever you would hire this man once
He'd spend his mornings on his knees

Who will buy a dandy old dandy?
Take what's left of his self-respect?
It would end his humilation
If just one boss from hell
Would answer his e-mail
There must be someone
Who will buy!