Writing For The Internet: What You Think I Do Versus What I Actually Do


Apparently, my grandmother has found a way to access the Interwebs and has come across my “letters.” Now, I’m unsure of whether or not she has actually read my “letters,” but what she does know is that I use my actual name and picture–as if I don’t use my own name and picture on Twitter or Facebook or Pinterest or life, in general. But none of this has slowed the unstoppable rebel force that is my grandma and her iPhone from this all day long:


Also, I’m a 23-year-old college graduate, so there’s that. I’m not sure what it is she thinks I do over here, but no amount of consoling her or telling her it will be alright–or that IT’S MY JOB–will stop the woman. I’m going to set the record straight for everyone. This is life working for the Internet.

What My Friends Think I Do

“Have you ever heard of Post Grad Problems? She writes for them.” I honestly have friends who introduce me to people like this, like I’m some sort of celebrity, and by saying those magic words I can get us in anywhere they so choose. They think I know all news and pop culture what-have-yous before anyone else in the world. I have good friends.

What My Mom Thinks I Do

It’s no secret to my mom that I love “Sex and the City,” so I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m your modern-day Carrie Bradshaw. However, I don’t think she knows what Carrie Bradshaw actually writes about, so that’s good. I’d be cool with a sex columnist by day, Cosmo-drinker by night kind of life, though.

What My Dad Thinks I Do

He will probably always think I’m selling my body online. If that were true, I’d have my student loan debt completely erased. I’d also probably be having a love affair with my hot gardener, Eduardo, on a yacht right off my estate in the Cayman Islands right now. But you live your dream, Dad. Yours is more important, anyway…

What My Grandma Thinks I Do

I believe with every essence of my being that the woman thinks I give away my address, date of birth, social security number, driver’s license number, hopes, dreams, and a blood donation to the Internet. Actually, I probably send out handwritten invitations to every sex offender, prison inmate, and identity thief in the lower 48. Come at me, bro.

And, What I Actually Do

As much as it flatters me that my friends give me celebrity-like status or that my mom thinks I’m cool enough to be the next Carrie Bradshaw, they are wrong just like my dad and my grandma. I am not a celebrity. I’m not even really Twitter famous. I’m more the Samantha than the Carrie. I don’t sell my body online (sorry, fellas). And I don’t give away every intimate life detail to the Internet. What do I actually do? I stare through my shattered iPhone screen at my Twitter feed all day, I watch the Olympics, I eat Nutella out of the jar, and, like every day of my life, I’m completely inappropriate. I find things that are new, interesting, or relatable and then I write about them–nine times out of 10 adding an inappropriate spin. Because I have no life. Don’t believe me? Go look at the rest of my columns.

And if you could please pray that my grandma doesn’t find “What Girls Are Actually Thinking During Sex,” I’d really appreciate it.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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