Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I was watching Gilmore Girls last Tuesday night, one of the few TV vices I have left along with HBO mega dramas, and TMN On Demand.

In this particular episode, Rory, that darling, blue-eyed innocent of Star’s Hollow, has gotten a job. Not just any job, but a newspaper job. Jumping up and down ecstatically, she exclaims to Lorelai and Logan, “Someone actually wants to pay me to write!”

Well, aren’t you special. Born under a lucky star at the end of a rainbow with a leprechaun up your ass. Stupid Rory. If she wasn’t a fictional character, I’d want to rip all the hair out of her pretty l’il head.

What a lovely theory there presented on Gilmore Girls, that the very second one finishes Journalism school they’re snapped up by a fantastic paper. Hired, paid, with benefits and a 401K, doing what they love to do the most in the world: write.

While this has happened to people I know, the number is pathetically small and worse yet, I’m not among them. I really did think I’d be among the chosen ones, I mean I scored pretty good grades and was the only one to land such an opportune internship.

Bla bla bla. Point is, I didn’t get the close-to-graduation phone call from people willing to pay me to write interesting things, and outside some dithering stories on less than fascinating subjects, any call like that has yet to come.

So while I sit here in my angst, peeling a blood orange so roughly you’d think it did me a great personal wrong, something is becoming abundantly clear: I need a job search strategy.