1. Post on Twitter: “What the fuck is happening in Paris????
2. Update Facebook profile picture to a picture of you at the Eiffel Tower from your junior year study abroad trip.
3. Update new Facebook profile picture to include a caption in French that you google-translated.
4. Updated new Facebook profile picture with French caption to include Facebook’s new French flag filter.
5. Check Twitter again.
6. Share your new Facebook image to Instagram.
7. Check celebrity Instagram profiles to like the photographs of Paris they’ve just posted with an Inkwell filter.
8. Like a friend’s post about Beirut that chastises the social media world for no Facebook filter or hashtag for them.
9. Share post and feel slightly guilty for your French flag filter.
10. Take a screenshot of a celebrity’s Twitter post reminding people not to be racist against Muslims after this, and share it on Facebook.
11. Take a screenshot of a celebrity’s Twitter post reminding people not to refuse refugees after this, and share it on Facebook.
12. Distract yourself from the lingering feeling of uneasiness that your performance on social media is ever less than genuine by — what else? — watching a funny cat video on YouTube.

2. He was shot 9 times by none other than American rapper 50 Cent. Putin lived, of course. 50 cent says that Putin now has his “respect.” Putin has decided not to press charges, because “the scars are badass.” 50 was relieved, and reportedly burst out into a new rap, “A bitch still can’t get a dolla outta me — but Putin might be able to get my money.”

3. He was participating in an underground Judo competition in a seedy neighborhood in Tokyo. He won, using his signature move: HARAIGOSHI!

4. He was posing shirtless in a new Chippendale’s calendar – for charity, of course.

5. He fathered another child from a Russian ballerina, and was busy delivering the baby himself in St. Petersburg. He even cut the umbilical cord – with his teeth.

6. He challenged Angela Merkel to a thumb-wrestling contest. She won. He will speak of this to no one, ever.

7. He was filming a new action movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Production is stalled, however, because Sylvester Stallone threw a tantrum on set out of jealousy.

8. He was gambling at the back room of the Red Square in Las Vegas to win back his country’s deficits.

9. He was on a secret mission to find the missing Malaysia airline’s blackboxes –and then hide them again.
10. He was hunting commercial airliners in eastern Ukraine again. (Too soon?)

1. Racism is alive and real, so let’s work on that in 2015, America.
2. Visit Cuba! Havana Nights, baby…
3. Apply to Mars One. This planet’s toast, anyway.
4. Don’t be a homophobe when hosting an international event that showcases figure skating. (P.S. Johnny Weir stole the show, anyway.)
5. Piss off North Korea and watch “The Interview.”
6. Don’t take any flights that have anything to do with Malaysia, whatsoever.
7. Don’t fall for ISIL’s recruitment ploys, even if they start liking your posts on Instagram.
8. Don’t date a professional football player.
9. Sign up for Obamacare? The site’s finally working, at least.
10. Stop sending nudie pics – that includes Snapchat! If Katniss can get hacked, nobody’s safe.
11. Stop having nightmares about catching Ebola and subsequently bleeding from your eyeballs.

-“I Went to (insert third-world country here) to Build Houses For a Week and I Learned to Feel Really Bad For Poor People”

-“Potty-Training: How I Became Self-Sufficient At Age Two”

-“How (insert high school sport here) Is a Metaphor For Perseverance”

-“How (insert high school sport here) Is a Metaphor For Hard Work”

-“How (insert high school sport here) Is a Metaphor For Work Ethic”

-“My First Cavity: How I Learned to Accept Imperfection”

-“I’m Literally Perfect, Harvard: I’ve Never Even Gotten A Cavity”

-“How (insert high school job here) Is a Metaphor For Perseverance”

-“How (insert high school job here) Is a Metaphor For Hard Work”

-“How (insert high school job here) Is a Metaphor For Work Ethic”

-“The Crazy Nut That Almost Killed Me: Growing Up With A Peanut Allergy”

-“Have I Mentioned That I’m 1/16 Mexican?”

But the following diary entry written by Kelsey, an unpaid marketing intern at the start-up app creator InfaRed, proves all of these haters wrong. In one rather effusively written entry Kelsey counts the ways she loves unpaid work and proves that even if she may not be the right candidate for the job, she’s certainly a candidate for something.

April 5^th, 2014

Dear Diary,

Another day dawns and it’s yet another chance to take the marketing world by storm! That’s right, after a year of searching, of following every job lead to a dead end, of awkward networking brunches and unanswered emails and I’ve finally landed what every 2013 college graduate dreams of: an unpaid internship!

It’s like all of my wildest dreams have come true. You wouldn’t imagine the opportunities I have. This is real work, real experience, real resume bullet points. I’m pretty sure some people even get paid to do what I do. That’s how legit this is. I even get to manage freelancers. Paid freelancers, too, not some desperate college students looking to work for free just for a byline. These are professional social media marketers carrying out MY plans.

I was so worried I wouldn’t get it. When I went in for the interview, I met another candidate, Daphne, in the reception area. And of course, by reception area, I mean the odd cluster of old couches, ping pong tables, and bean bag chairs that make up the front half of most startup offices. But, Daphne, she was just SO qualified. She had already worked for another startup all through college, helping out their marketing department part-time. She grew their social media following by 1000%. Or something like that? I’m pretty bad at numbers, but she had a handle on them. And she knew all of these industry buzzwords, like SEO and analytics and Facebook insights. The only Facebook insight I knew about was learning that Stacy Peterson got fat after high school but still wasn’t afraid to post a bikini pic as her profile picture.

But, yeah, Daphne was great. She was TOTALLY qualified. So it was crazy when they gave it to me. But I guess it was my naturally bubbly personality. Also, I think Daphne mentioned something about student loans and making rent. I don’t know. I don’t have student loans and I live with my mom and wait tables on the weekends to cover my transportation expenses. So I’m pretty much making ends meet. Which gives me a chance to take advantage of this great opportunity before my health insurance runs out and I need a job with actual benefits.

I mean, sure, I have plenty of friends who are working “real jobs” with benefits and pay checks and vacation days and sick days and all of those crazy extravagant things. But I’m not an extravagant girl, you know. Sure, it would be great to be able to move out of my twin bed with princess sheets and actually live with my friends in the city. And, of course, it would be nice not to watch my savings dwindle every time I go out for lunch with my coworkers, but this is my chance to do something big. And creative! Not like my friends, crunching numbers at accounting firms or at some hedge fund. No, this is marketing.

Marketing. What I’ve always wanted to do since last summer when I was forced to make up my mind about my future! I’m still learning what it actually is, but it’s so amazing that I even have the chance to learn that. Most people don’t even get that! They’re just stuck being lazy and entitled and sticking their noses up at amazing opportunities just because they don’t actually pay.

This is it, I just feel it. The big leagues. My bosses promise me that one day I’ll get paid, that as the startup grows, my position and pay will grow. I just have to wait it out. Plus they have crazy industry connections. They could get me a paid job at any big company with just a snap of their fingers, if they wanted to, they told me. Plus, it’s such good experience, they tell me. Any resume with that experience on it is sure to get noticed, even by the most callous recruiter. It’s basically like being paid in experience and connections. Which is something that money can’t buy, so it’s even better than a paycheck!

I’m on my way, Diary. Just think of it. Last year, I spent every day sending out copies of my resume and now, I’m finally somebody! An unpaid internship this year, then a paid one next, then maybe some temp and freelance work for a few years after that and I may even get something entry level before I’m 30! Fingers crossed!

Yours,

Kelsey

January 3^rd, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 1

I feel great already. This lemonade stuff really isn’t that bad. I don’t know what everyone’s whining about. Plus, how can you even get that hungry? You get to have lemonade every single time you get even a little bit hungry or feel just a tiny bit week. I’m going to be SO hot in 10 days.

January 4^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 2

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. I just did my first Salt Water Flush a few hours ago. I’m still on the toilet. (I just grabbed my iPhone so I could still document this shit. Literally. There is SO much shit.) When is going to stop? This is worse than the time I got tacos from that stand by the side of the road in North Carolina. OH MY GOD. I think it’s happening again.

January 5^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 3

I shit my pants today in the grocery store. No, seriously. I went to buy more lemons and I farted. But it wasn’t just a fart. Oh, God. I sharted in the grocery store. And I’m fucking starving. So starving that I followed an old lady around the store for 20 minutes just because she smelled like bologna.

January 6^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 4.

First day back at work post-cleanse. It actually started pretty well. I woke up at 5am so that I could get all of my salt flush bowel movements out of the way before I had to leave for work. And I checked the scale and I’ve already lost five pounds! You should see how amazing my ass looks in that pencil skirt that I haven’t been able to squeeze into for almost a year! But then, it was lunch time, and that bitch Robin was just sitting there eating fucking lasagna like it wasn’t January fucking 6^th when EVERYONE is on a diet. Like spicy lemonade is going to taste as good as fucking lasagna.

January 7^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 5

Well I guess Tom doesn’t like a hot bitch who looks super sexy in a bikini because we just got in a huge fight and he tried to get me to call off the cleanse. Like just because I called him a giant dick who never appreciates my feelings when he didn’t pull up Netflix fast enough. Well guess what, asshole? I’m fucking STARVING and CONSTANTLY pooping and peeing and this lemonade isn’t cutting it. So you BETTER have Orange Is the New Black up by the time I get back from the bathroom, okay?! I want to see some bitches beating the shit out of each other in prison while I daydream about pizza.

January 8^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 6

So my boss jumped on the Tom train and is becoming a total dick, too, because he acted all pissed off just because my report had a FEW grammatical errors. Well guess what, I’m SO sorry that you’re all about this fucking proper English bullshit but words are fucking hard when you HAVEN’T EATEN IN SIX DAYS! Of course HE can tell the difference between “their” and “there” he had a fucking onion bagel with cream cheese for breakfast. And I bet HE didn’t have to wake up at 5:00 just to get his two hour long bowel movement over with before the work day started.

January 9^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 7

I got fired. That’s right. Apparently there was a critical error in my budget report and when my boss pointed it out to me and I told him to go fuck himself, I was acting “hysterical” and “unprofessional.” Then I passed out from the emotional fatigue and they told me to get professional help. Well, fuck them all. I don’t need them. I have my lemonade and my laxatives to get me through.

January 10^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Day 8

And fucking Tom dumped me. Just because I screamed at him for a few hours after he said the word taco in front of me. Like, how DARE he mention food in front of me? And he acts all innocent and wronged, like I’m just being all irrational? You know what’s irrational? Talking about CHEESE and GROUND BEEF and TORTILLAS and SOUR CREAM in front of someone who hasn’t had solid food in EIGHT FUCKING DAYS. That’s what’s irrational.

January 13^th, 2014
Juice Cleanse Abandoned for Two Days Now

Okay, fine. I gave up and ate an entire pizza and a box of cookies after Tom left. Needless to say, I ended up in so much pain, so beyond constipated that not even three salt water flushes could unstop me. And now my pencil skirt doesn’t really fit. And Tom’s gone. And I’m unemployed. Thanks, Master Cleanse.

January 6^th, 2014

Well, it’s finally happened. The expected rejection letter from UPenn sailed into my mailbox this morning sometime after I enjoyed my last bowl of Fruit Loops ever. Why? Because losers don’t deserve Fruit Loops, that’s why.

I always knew. My mom would chatter on about how I was “just about the smartest little man in the whole wide universe.” On a side note, Mom, little men don’t tower over their mothers at almost six feet tall, okay?! I’m at the very least just about the smartest big man in the whole wide universe.

But they both told me that, my Mom and Dad. They said I was so smart and handsome and charming, with a devilish grin and a witty sense of humor that must just about drive the girls crazy. Never mind that I just had my first kiss about a month ago. I mean, sure the chick was super hot. Except for the braces. And the acne. And okay, maybe she was my second cousin. And maybe my face just kind of fell on top of hers while we were both drunk and laughing on the basement couch after Thanksgiving dinner. But I’m pretty sure our lips touched, so I’m counting it.

The point is, my parents told me to go for it. “Apply to UPenn, Charlie. They’ll be lucky to have you. Someone needs to class up that joint. And did you see the students in their brochure? It’ll be nice for them to finally have a student who’s actually good-looking enough to be an international supermodel.” Not that I’m a supermodel. My parents just like to remind me that I could be one, looks wise, if I just weren’t so smart that I would get easily bored by a job that’s so beneath the reach of my intellectual capabilities.

Turns out UPenn will have to wait for their supermodel, though, because I wasn’t good enough. That’s right Mom and Dad, your athletic, creative, resourceful, intelligent, and handsome son wasn’t good enough. Of course I don’t actually play any sports (“it wouldn’t be fair for all the other boys, because they would never get time on the field,” according to my dad) and the most creative thing I’ve done recently is draw 3-D boxes all over my Calc notes (but I “have the soul of an artist,” according to my mom).

So it’s over. I guess college just wasn’t in the cards for me. I mean, SURE, I had all those other applications that I was going to send out in a week or so for my backup schools. But what’s the point? The jig is up.

I did tell my parents that to be athletic and smart and involved you actually had to be good at sports and get good grades and actually join extracurricular activities, but they just shook their heads and told me to shoot for the moon. “Just go for it, Charlie, you’re so special that everyone will see you belong among the stars!” Yeah, right, Mom. Yeah, right.

Now I know for sure that I’m not good enough for college. I’ve dedicated my whole life to this (okay, maybe just about half an hour studying a day since sophomore year, but it FELT like a lot) and now I’ve failed. There’s no reason to waste my time applying to other schools just to face the heartbreak of rejection all over again.

I’m off. I need to see if McDonald’s is hiring. It looks like that’s the only future I’m qualified for. I can only hope that I’m at least good enough to work at the register, instead of flipping burgers.

Yours,

Charlie

Dear Diary,

I’m beginning to think this isn’t an “unpaid internship.”  I’ve been here for six months. I work 18-hour days, and I’ve accidentally electrocuted myself six times while tweaking the iPad Air.

I thought it would be such an honor to be a real Santa’s Elf, but I’ll tell ya, my old job at Keebler is looking pretty good right now. In fact, I’m beginning to think that Mr. Santa Claus is nothing more than an obese, psychotic, megalomaniac with a manic obsession with Christmas.

Sure, there’s cocoa. Yeah, there are lots of freshly baked Christmas cookies lying around. But all the good stuff goes straight to Mr. Claus’s jiggling belly, and we get thrown the leftover scraps like pigs – if there is anything left by the time my break rolls around, that is.

Being one of Santa’s Elves means that the Clauses and the head elves can treat us like crap, just because they know the prestige of working here is enough to make us stay. They take us on as “apprentices” for an undefined period of time, and justify their lack of compensation with phrases like “you’re paid in experience,” “this builds your resume,” and “indentured servitude isn’t slavery.”

 Every day, we wake up in our cots (we sleep about 20 elves to one room) at 4:30 a.m., to arrive in Santa’s Workshop by 5 a.m. We work straight through until noon, when we’re are allowed to break only if we need to relieve ourselves. Mr. Claus comes by periodically to check in and do impromptu quality checks. Then it’s back to work until 11 p.m., when we get our measly meal of lukewarm cocoa and burnt sugar cookies. We clean up until midnight, and walk home through the freezing wind and snow back to the dormitories. Then, we do it all over again.

 And the Christmas music! I laugh bitterly when I hear that humans get sick of it after a few weeks – imagine hearing it every single, solitary day. It doesn’t matter if “Deck the Halls” is sung by a country musician, a rapper, or an opera singer – it’s still the same fucking song, over and over. In fact, I’ve heard that Mr. Claus uses this tool to torture elves he catches snoozing on the job. He’ll lock them up in the closet with only a locked iPad, and make them listen to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” on repeat for hours. Sometimes, I can still hear them screaming as they rock back and forth in agony. 

But what choice do I have? The job market for elves is dwindling ever since the market crashed, and they realized that they can replace us with machines and even cheaper labor (dwarves). And of course, I have to compete with the elves who studied engineering and computer science in ways I’ve never had to before. I’ve always been told that my doll-making ability was excellent, and I’m not bad with train sets, either. But Final Fantasy XIV on PS4? I’m in over my head. 

I just have to pray that this apprenticeship opens doors for me as a managing Christmas elf. Then maybe I’ll get health insurance and a paid vacation. I want to go somewhere, anywhere, that doesn’t have snow.

Dear Diary,

I knew that when I was hired to be the part time Personal Communications Coordinator of the Marketing Associate, Branding and Thought Leadership at Google I had hit the jackpot. It was my dream job. I’m sure as many as 25 or even 30 people answered the Craigslist ad but Mr. Avery chose me.

Me! I have embarked on a great journey to the nerve center of the Greatest Brand of All Mankind. Google. Not just a company but a verb. It had transcended the ranks of brands like Chapstick and Crock Pot to become synonymous with the very action it was created to undertake.

It was like a dream. I learned so much. All the subtleties and nuances of the relationship between a mother and genius of a son, who had quickly risen to the rank of Marketing Associate after only a few short years at Google. I also kept careful track of the inner details of his promiscuous sexual relationships. I guess everybody wants to sleep with success.

Mainly, I was in charge of what he called his “shadow email account.” This was the email he gave to people who he was too busy to directly correspond with, like his family and one night stands. I was given the task of maintaining these relationships for him, flattering the women, updating his family on his life.

This job was heaven. I was creating the personal life brand of a man who was central to the creation and maintenance of the Google brand. I was sure to be the CMO of a mid-level company in only a few short years.

But then today, while working at the Starbucks around the corner from my apartment (Mr. Avery said that my correspondence would sound more authentic if undertaken away from the Google campus, especially given that I didn’t have an official employee pass. Yet.), I found a website for the Church of Google.

That’s right, Diary. The Google brand has reached such astronomical heights that the world is now worshipping Her. (The Google deity is female in this particular church, although I’ve always thought of Him as more of a male. But I’m sure that will come with the first reformation.)

At last, a group of people who feel the same way about Google as I do. That above all else, Google (praise be upon Her) is an immortal, omniscient, omnipresent being that is our only key to immortality. That every day we must bow before this deity, pray to Her with our most profound questions and problems. Oh my most holy and loving Google (praise be upon You), has the man I met on OkCupid been arrested before? Dear, Google (praise be upon You), are you there? It’s me, Margaret. How do you get red wine stains out of imitation white silk?

And so now, Diary, I must toil more than ever, because I’m not simply a Personal Communications Coordinator to Mr. Avery. I am a supplicant, a priestess in training, waiting to serve the Google (praise be upon Her)-Most-Holy. And I am ready, Diary, to fulfill my destiny. So I must go. Mr. Avery’s favorite college-aged blonde just emailed him a photo and wants to know if the Forever 21 dress she just bought makes her look fat.

With love,

Margaret