Red Dye #5, Unpaid Interns, and General Fuckery

Hi friends,

Sorry it’s been a while. Life has been happening, but not the exciting kind where you have all this awesome shit to share, but the kind where you reach a trembling finger towards your key board to order Thai food at 8 pm and use every ounce of strength to answer the door when it rings because otherwise no Thai food (and you’re in the hole $12.50 plus tip).

Important updates are as follows:

– No word from bougie fashion magazine on whether not I’m being paid for my fashion closet services

– No word on whether or not that internship is in fact official or even legal

– No official decision made with current company regarding whether or not I’m working in a new position, or staying where I am. There’s been a lot of confusion lately about what the protocol is, because HR isn’t hiring interns or “aids” as they’re called now, it’s an outside agency. So I know nothing and neither does anyone else

– Still an unpaid intern at lovely underground magazine where I’m actually doing awesome work and learning things, but I don’t know how long I can keep that going without going freelance or getting paid…

– I’m positively begging humans via the NYC housing group on Facebook to show me their apartments so I can pay them disgusting amounts of money and not be homeless. Considering I’ve only been able to make two appointments for Thursday, I’m essentially Fucked with a capital F

– I have very little amounts of money, so Christmas presents are going to be a joke this year

– Ben & Jerry’s Red Velvet Ice cream is a joke and not worth it

– The roach family has retreated to a hide-y hole under my kitchen sink where I like to imagine that they’re rotting in hell, but they’re probably just waiting for an opportune moment to eat my face off in the night

– I have more dirty laundry than I have appropriate work clothes that I enjoy wearing (that doesn’t change even when I have clean clothes, so it’s a bit of a moot point)

– My room is too small to allow me to pack up my shit while also living in here, so my room is a Hunger Games-style obstacle course of suitcases, books, New York encrusted shoes, and plastic take-out utensils

– I am full of Ramen-style noodles from a fancy noodle place that was really good but expensive and I somewhat regret spending all that money (but it was so GOOD)

– My shower is flooding and I have little to no desire to buy yet another thing for this apartment, least of all Draino, which I’m actually terrified of (don’t fucking laugh- Draino is essentially Ebola in a bottle that lives under your kitchen sink next to your Windex and can horribly fuck with you. I dare you not to imagine the consequences of what ingesting such a chemical would do to you. If you really want to know though, I’ll tell you about a little kid I know of who did it and had to have a tracheotomy. Argument closed.)

– I’m hovering in the midst of chronic sarcasm, exhaustion, and crabbiness.

I hate being an intern. I hate that when it snows in NYC is turns into the consistency of freezing toilet water. I hate being broke. I hate not having a real job. I hate being told that I’m an entitled millenial because having 5+ internships doesn’t qualify you to have a real job, and you have to pay your dues for two years after you graduate college, which means not eating and having a roommate until you’re 30, but it still doesn’t matter because at least half your take-home income is being eaten and shit out by absurd rent prices, while 1% of New York City lives is a goddamn pent house while making $10,000 a day just for showing up to back to back meetings and holding a fucking pen in an authoritative manner. And yet somehow 20-something unpaid interns are entitled because we would like to qualify for minimum wage.


And looky that? We haven’t even started on student loans!!!

But actually I can’t start that. It’s too exhausting. And the red dye #5/cow brain mixture that is this god forsaken Ben & Jerry’s needs to be put in the back of the freezer where it belongs.

If I don’t post again, I’ve probably followed it into the freezer and found some kind of David Lynchian Narnia behind the Edamame peas and decided it was preferable to whatever this shit is that means being a college graduate.

Good night, good luck, and god help you.


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