What to talk about? What shall I put to page at this ungodly hour? As per the instructions of the powers that be, I write of my internship this summer. Let it be known, I do this, not so much to amuse you, myself or any other freak of nature who has the time to read the op-eds (we all know the only reason anyone picks up the paper is to read BDG); rather, it is to appease the blood-lust of my editor (hallo, Courtney!). Therefore, dear (freak of nature) reader, forgive the inadequacies.
I suppose as a (pending) creative writing major, the most logical field into which I could enter would be public relations in an international fashion corporation. Clearly. How can one possibly deny the correlation between the literature of the ages and the 2000 Fall line? Need I even explain? I think not.
I returned to New York in June with my job search well underway. I had a file saved as "Rsum" that said "NANCY I. LAI" and "Nancy.I.Lai@dartmouth.edu" all the way at the top in big, bold letters. Having accomplished so much, I thought that perhaps I needed to take a well-deserved break. The sheer exhaustion of my effort, this typing of my name and making it bold, underlined and size 16 instead of the usual 12, behooved me to spend the entire month of June watching the daytime lineup of talk shows. It was perhaps the most taxing 30 days that I have ever spent in my life. (Next to my internship, that is.) But for all that hard work, did it at least expand my horizons, open me up to the world beyond my paltry surroundings? You bet your ass it did.
But as I lay awake in bed one night, shivering under a down comforter to the chill of the air conditioner, I realized that it was time for me to get out there. Or perhaps my new resolve was due not so much to the midnight epiphany as to the never-ending nagging of my mother, i.e. "I don't care if you work in McDonald's, get thee hence, thou Spawn of Satan! Find yourself a job or die trying." Apparently, my mother doesn't think much of education through tele-visual osmosis.
So I finished my rsum, careful to mention that I wrote for America's Oldest College Newspaper, made a few phone calls and voil: received two replies in a single day. I was fortunate enough to have both callers ask, "You know this is unpaid, right?" This saved me the tremendous trouble it would have taken me to decide whether I wanted to be compensated for a 40-hour workweek. How truly grateful I was.
Below is a list of what I did and learned at my lucrative internship. (I enjoy lists because they permit me the luxury of not having to coherently transition my thoughts. Haha. That is just a joke. Ha. I am not lazy at all as demonstrated by the enterprising nature of my job search. Of course.)
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Spent $600 of my own savings at my internship -- lunch, metrocards, taxis.
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Read a book called "4 Blondes" and discovered that Smith is a part of the Ivy League.
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Flipped through fashion magazines and men's magazines that can be categorized as "horny men who like to see Britney Spears in a state of undress mags."
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Dressed and undressed helpless models, who, because they are of such an enormous height and insignificant girth, are unable to lift up anything heavier than a cigarette.
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Saw bare breasts of said models at a proximity in which I was close enough to gouge my eyes out. (This is for the benefit of those horny men who like to see Britney Spears in a state of undress.)
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Learned that Herms is not pronounced like a certain STD. (Hey, you '04s should know a little somethin' somethin' 'bout that, eh?)
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"You can never be too anorexic."
'Nuf said.
