I don't know how anyone manages to care about a career without drowning themselves in a vat of Château Lafite Rothschild to feel something. Everyone makes a big joke out of tacky wine mom paraphernalia but honestly at least they're honest about the futility of their ambitions meaning anything beyond the serotonin of narcissism. Career people. You know, the ones that don't have a job; they've a calling. Christ.
Anyhow. Demonikea's hiring. Interested in mid-century modern and selling your soul? Grand. Don't make them like you like I did; that was such a mistake. You'll never stop smelling of brimstone and meatballs.