I know the difference between “your” and “you’re,” and I spawn one gray hair every time I witness the two being misused. I feel like I’m sinning if I don’t read at least 3/4 of the newspaper, and I often find myself reading yesterday’s news to cure my guilt. I have feelings of anxiety when I’m sitting still, because I’m worried I may be missing an opportunity. I can fit everything I own into my two-door Honda Civic. I eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly. There are days of despair when my dreams are light years away, and then others when I am so sure of my destiny that it feels as though I’m walking on a cumulonimbus. I’m a 25-year-old college graduate who despises career lectures and any mention of the words “real job.” I’ve (almost) accepted that the path I’ve chosen will take time and will not result in any sort of great wealth. I hope my friends get rich, because I never will be. Those close to me worry about my fate a great deal more than I do. More often than not, I am certain that the only people reading what I write are my parents and my younger sister. I make them proud, and that is enough for me. I don’t have a salary, benefits, or a 401K. I don’t even have an office, an engraved nameplate, or a reserved parking space. I’m wealthy when I have more than three digits in my bank account. I work two jobs, and I don’t even get paid for one of them. I’m new to all of this.
I am an editorial intern.
Stay strong, brother! Good things will come.