Tag Archives: dogs

Sunday Update: My dog reads The New Yorker

It’s Sunday and you’re wondering, is leaving my couch necessary today orrrrr would it be acceptable to re-watch the entire series of Workaholics in one go? Take two: It’s Sunday and you’re one of those people that likes to do things like go to brunch or try your hand at paddle-boarding and you’re wondering: there’s so little time to show everyone how active and busy my rewarding life is! (Guess which one of these I am!?)

Fear not young weekenders, you can do it ALL and you can look at this picture of my dog. Oh! And you can also head over to the sidebar area and like my page on Facebook because we all want to show those bitches in high school how accomplished we are now. Help me get revenge, Facebook style. (I know I’m late to this party but I’ve finally come to accept that my future mother-in-law is probably going to hear me talk about dicks at some point so why prolong the inevitable?)

Now, by popular demand, here’s Tengo reading the New Yorker:


Now go like my Facebook page so I can quantitatively prove my worth to my family and friends! Thanks for putting up with me!

“Don’t get anxious but…”

Was the preface to a story Matti told me the other day that got me thinking about how my boisterous little companion affects my everyday life. Obviously, one of the funnest things in the world is being a person with anxiety (said no one, ever). The best part about anxiety is the surprise factor, it’s so fun and unpredictable! Take for instance, bringing Tengo to Petsmart to get food:

Me: “Come on, Tengo, I’m supposed to be getting my period soon, my legs feel like I spent the last week in an uncertified trapeze training class and I’m trying awfully hard to retain my calm, assertive pack leader energy. I need to make The Dog Whisperer proud, damn it! Stop getting so excited! You’ve seen dogs before!”

If any of you know who Maria Bamford is, at the moment, I’m trying my best to to manipulate my voice into calmness. Homegirl can throw her voice like no one I’ve ever heard.


Tengo’s tail is pinwheeling and he has his eye on the German Shepherd puppy approaching the store. As I take three deep breathes, he lunges for the dog, clearly sensing my impending menstruation and intuiting it as weakness.

“HEY! SIT!” Cesar Millan urges us to find a sound that reaches our dog like his “shhh” so mine is “HEY!” It’s more embarrassing for me then attention-grabbing for Tengo. At this point instead of projecting calm and assertive energy, I’m laser-beaming it out through my eyes. Cesar would tell me to envision the result. I’m envisioning the result. Tengo is now running in circles. I’M ENVISIONING THE DAMN RESULT. I’M ENVISIONING TENGO NOT BEING SUCH A FUCKING DOUCHE BAG.

“I SAID SITTTTTTTTTTTT!” At this point, calm is not happening, especially not for someone with anxiety that hasn’t been on medication for years and that counts being a recluse as a valid reaction to societal pressures.

We are now in Petsmart — I refuse to back down, he needs to be fed and I’m not getting the puppy police called on me for leaving Tengo in the car in 150 degree heat. We make our way to the food aisle, Tengo is thankfully submissive, his tail is lowered like we practiced, and I’m confident I have shaken my negative energy off at the door. Tengo has other plans. As he sniffs some plush toys in the middle of the main aisle, he lifts his leg up and starts pissing like a drunk guy in an alley way. Everywhere. On my feet and ankles.

cesar“Are you ffffffffffffff-kidding me!” I start to beg Tengo, “Please, please stop being such an asshole. I even picked you out chicken treats, how could you do this to me?” His face is how I imagine Anthony Weiner’s to be when looking at his wife.

The worst part about all of this is the employee’s acceptance of my dog’s inability to understand  my feelings.

“Oh, it’s okay! It happens all the time! He’s just soo excited” Says Carol, from dog grooming. You’re not fooling me Carol, I can sense you only got this job after you retired and realized spending time with pups was easier than being around your husband all day.

Really Carol, is it okay? So will you come to the vintage furniture store that Tengo shit in and explain that to them, too? Actually, matter of fact, come to the park with me too and tell everyone it’s okay as I start screaming his name to come but he’s too busy humping the other dogs.

Anxiety: 1 Aly: 0

Matti and I are driving to the supermarket when we park and the plans for the night are brought up, specifically, the lack of there being any plans.


You always get me, Charlie

Me: “I CAN’T HANDLE THIS WHY AREN’T YOU COMMUNICATING BETTER I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE LET ME OUT.” I get out of the car, walk two cars down, and walk back to the car and get inside.


(Matti sits there calmly like a good fiancée who works as an intake specialist with mentally unstable people every day would.)

Me: AHHHH BUT I’M SO HUNGRY. WHY ARE YOU STILL IN HERE!? WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING TONIGHT? HAVE WE FIGURED OUT A PLACE.?GAHHHH I CAN’T HANDLE THIS PRESSURE. (Starts sobbing while thinking about how good frozen cheese pizza would be right now.)

Anxiety: 2 Aly: 0

Tune in next time to see how I dealt with unexpected car trouble! Spoiler alert: Car seats survive after being assaulted by upper leg sweat!

How do you deal with life’s little surprises?

Because Why Wouldn’t You Go Rollerblading?

If you want to know what I was like as a preteen, just imagine a glittery baby blue Limited Too cami, hair straightened with a clothes iron, too much eyeliner, and of course, Rollerworld. I ruled Rollerworld like it was Fangtasia and I was Pam. The Rollerworld of Saugus, Massachusetts is where I learned girl code, how to be Mexican (hey, I’m 25%),  and of course, how to grind while rollerblading. Friday night Rollerworld dances were my transition into the raunchy world of teenage desire, where shaking your booty to Lil’ Kim was mandatory.


Actual photo of Rollerworld — I can’t help but imagine the number of semi-boners that existed on this dance floor at one time.

I only wish I had tapes made of me and my skinny twig legs rollerblading around with an underdeveloped ass and overdeveloped boobs trying to twerk my way into a boy’s line of vision. It didn’t help that the two girls I always went to these dances were mostly Italian and had Beyoncé (from Destiny’s Child days) booties without even having to drop it low. Mannn, I dropped it low though; but it didn’t look natural — I looked more like Gumby with blossoming breasts bending over than an attractive young female purposefully making dance moves.


There I am!

So, obviously, when Anna asked if I wanted to go rollerblading tonight, I said yes. Because obviously I need to relive my raunchy youth more and as much as I loved almost dying after hiking yesterday, I’d prefer to exercise without realizing I’m doing it. (Ellen Page also really romanticized rollerblading for me in a kick ass way). Matti, however, when asked, did not understand the draw to rollerblading. My initial reaction to this was severe outrage which then obviously led to the questioning of our entire relationship and how I could be with someone who doesn’t see the inherit amazingness of floating on rollerblades in a giant indoor arena with a bunch of other adults trying to be kids. But then I realized, without Matti at our rollerblading adventure, I could TRULY relive my Rollerworld glory days. (Hey, babe, if you’re reading this, you cannot get mad at me if I bring home an 18-year-old rollerblader with an active spirit and a youthful disposition. You decided not to come and this is just who I am now).

Anyways, redoers, prepare for a literary feast of descriptions of me rollerblading to hip hop music with teenagers circling around me, chanting, “ROLL, ROLL, ROLL” tomorrow because that’s what us ‘bladers do. Tomorrow’s post will be rollerific (copyright?).

But now for truly important matters:

If you REALLY love me like you say you do, you will go right now to look at this picture of Sir Tengo, my princely pup, and comment with a caption for a chance to win amazingly unique and ridiculous prizes from me! (Seriously, where else can you win a homemade ninja star AND official US Postal Service postmaster junior stickers.) There are two awesome entries so far but we need more! You will also win my undying love and respect which, of course, is invaluable. Mostly though, Tengo likes to hear me read the captions to him out loud so he can imagine being on puppy adventures. You have till Friday, you animals.

Cute Dogs, Contests, and Prizes, Oh My!

Hello redoers (yes, yes, that’s what I’m calling you from now on) in the middle of writing you a brilliantly entertaining review of that time I went out and got drunk off a margarita and a half, I realized I haven’t giving you anything recently (besides my relentlessly graceful wit). I also realized I haven’t bragged to you about how amazingly adorable my prince pup, Tengo is. So here’s our chance!

Now introducing the first annual Prince Tengo Caption contest! Can you feel the excitement? The anticipation? It’s pungent (most likely because Tengo hasn’t taken a bath in a while).

ninjastarI’m going to provide you with a picture of Tengo in one of his princely positions and the winner will receive — wait for it — the intricately crafted colorful ninja star from the first installment of What’s In My Purse as well as some of my official US Postal Service Junior Postmaster stickers (and of course, a personalized note from yours truly which, let’s face it, will someday be worth a lot more than we think)!

A little bit of background for creativity sake: Tengo has long battled his nemesis, Mirror Tengo (the dog living inside the mirrored sliding doors of our closet), upon realizing, however, that Tengo can go behind the other side of the mirror, Tengo revealed his true self:

tengo's eyes


  • The funniest, cleverest caption will win. Make me and Tengo laugh (it’s been a long week).
  • Winner(s) will be announced Friday, August 2nd.
  • Enter your caption by commenting on this post.
  • Feel free to campaign for your favorite caption through comments as well.
  • Enter as many captions as you want!
  • Entertain me, please, I’m asking very nicely.
  • Email me at aly.dixon210@gmail.com with any questions
  • Andddddd…. caption!

How to Not Die When Hiking

foodcomaYou know when you wake up before your stomach isn’t fully done digesting the entire box of macaroons junk food you ruthlessly shoved down your gullet the night before? You feel like a mix of the Michelin Man and seven-year-old you the morning after Halloween — that’s me any morning I wake up before ten.

Yesterday, as a means to rid myself of this feeling, and the entire container of almond and dark chocolate chip cookies I heroically consumed in a day’s time, (without having t0 resort to a suppository), I did a brave thing: I went on a hike. Normally, throw some coffee in my volcano stomach and bing, eruption results (As my mom would say, in the middle of the checkout line at the grocery store, “aww Al, I gotta go poops,” because she’s apparently a five-year-old boy) but my innards are vindictive — they hold my feasts against me. (FINE, I guess I did also eat the entire container of macaroons but Matti had some too…. okay, okay, he only had two.)

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Aww, New Yorker, you’re so clever!

I felt excited about the idea of going on a hike, I felt like Caesar Milan would really appreciate my pack-leader sensibility and the last time Matti and I went on this trail it barely felt like exercise (except for maybe at the end when I was huddled over a sharp rock holding back vomit). But hiking has a way of hiding its misery better than other forms of exercise like say, running on a treadmill; I feel like the same people that invented hamster wheels also invented treadmills. I did used to run on them when I worked as a swim instructor at Boston Sports Club, but that was because the gym membership was free, and you know what, hiking in the woods is always free! (Unless it costs money!)

My experience hiking can be summed up by my choice of foot wear: my powder blue Chuck Taylor’s from 7th grade that are a mysterious size 6 yet still fit. (Because my aim is to look like a hiker who doesn’t give a fuck.) Fast forward an hour to me attempting to sprint in an empty riverbed, dodging rocks and baby plants as Tengo chases me, then crookedly stepping on a stone and almost breaking myself due to the Chuck’s lack of ankle support — I imagine I looked like one of those models on the runway with toothpick legs and 20 inch heels that looses her balance and looks like a baby deer trying to get up and walk for the first time — ugh, so painfully delightful to watch.

Halfway down the trail is when I realized, however, this could be where I die. I clearly had not thought out this whole hiking thing: I never go anywhere by myself I could likely be killed. Don’t get me wrong, Tengo’s a good protector, but he takes after me — throw him something edible and he’s all are you my mommy now? I mean, I get scared just lying in my own bed at night, fearing tiny dangerous people will pop out of the AC unit, so how did I not properly anticipate the danger before positioning myself as serial killer bait deep, deep in the wooded trail behind my apartment. Matti even texted me “Be safe!” (More about my irrational fear of serial killers).

This is not me but it is the best depiction of the type of area I would've been killed in.

This is not me but it is the best depiction of the type of area I would’ve been killed in.

There was also the fact that I had some misplaced confidence from the first half of the hike, which was the going down part. I used all my energy prancing and maneuvering around wooded obstacles that I forgot I wasn’t sixteen and in shape. You would’ve thought I was trying to invent my own brand of woodland Parkour (key word: trying). Looking around, I thought, yeah well, this would be an awfully good place to murder someone: a skinny trail leading to an empty riverbed in the middle of the woods to which I have no alternative way to get out besides the mountainous way I came. But that’s when I realized, Aly, you’re way to ordinary to get killed by a lurking serial killer in the woods behind your apartment — this is the logic that usually helps me to calm down in unfoundedly fearful situations. Also, if you predict something awful is going to happen, it’s less likely to occur, because then we’d all be psychic — it’s just science.

Matti and I on the same trail a few weeks ago, notice my side forehead sweat

Matti and I on the same trail a few weeks ago, notice my side forehead sweat

So Tengo and I ventured back up where we came from, and needless to say, we didn’t get murdered, which leads me to believe my previous assertion about tragedies is correct. Also, I believe I sweat out all of the leftover cookie fat from the previous nights, because that’s possible. I wish I had pictures to show you of my cranberry sauce colored face on the way up but I was too fearful that showing I was distracted by taking a picture would entice the hiding killer.

I did learn some lessons from my hike: Don’t assume you will want or be able to carry anything on your way back from the hike. Yes, this includes water. Get a damn fanny pack or some shit. Better yet, strap it to your dog’s back — he’ll appreciate the workout (I say he because all dogs are boys). There’s always going to be something that looks like a snake hole that you must jump over. Don’t waste your energy on the way down, you idiot. And finally, find an alternate route of evacuation incase of serial killers. Happy hiking!

What have you done lately that scared you?

The Initiation of the Neighborhood Dog Poop Watch


The other day as I walk mindlessly in the grocery store next to my apartment, occupying myself by pretending I actually need to go grocery shopping, I spot a nice chunk of mud on the side of my bunion toe, squishing between my new red Dorothy sandals and my improperly manicured big toe nail. My first instinct, which I regrettably followed, was to wipe off the mud with my fingers — why not touch the mysterious black gob on your foot as your simultaneously prod the habanero peppers for ultimate freshness? Oh, that’s right, because it’s definitely a hunk of a dog shit now smeared all over my forefingers and up into my nail crevices as if I’d been mincing up shit flavored garlic.

Obviously, as an attempt to appear less materialistic in the super local, plastic-is-the-devil, doesn’t-carry-jiffy-peanut-butter market next door, I didn’t bring my purse which consistently has at least 5 different types of hand sanitizer at all times. So I began to venture around the store, dragging the shit side of my poop foot on whatever rug I could like I was Keyser Söze. There’s no hand sanitizing stations anywhere because someone is clearly punishing me for some severely overlooked past transgression.

In the middle of wandering around, I realize I actually don’t have to be shopping at all, since I only came for the joy of being able to tell Matti I left the apartment that day, but I realize if I buy something I can most likely bother the cashier for some hand sanitizer, despite how mean her mustache looks. Obviously I get stuck behind two — let’s call them “older” — ladies who had apparently spent the entire night prior plotting the best ways to elongate the grocery checkout process.

The cashier wasn’t pleased and I immediately regretted the line I chose to stand in — this lady reminded me of Miss Storti, my old middle school substitute teacher who chain smoked out the window in the classroom, called every girl “Trixy” and sounded like she had a hole in her throat (she also once made me stand up and lift my arms over my head in front of the entire class to prove that my belly was showing). The cashier seemed just as personable. The level of annoyed she looked at having to box the old ladies groceries instead of bag them was akin to me coming home to a freshly made dog shit on my rug.

Three hours later in shit-on-your-fingers-time, it was my turn up at bat with the headmaster from The Little Princess the cashier. I couldn’t help but think of the cashier I had a few days prior whose sense of humor I LOVED:

“Hey, Gabe, remember that time we worked at Sprouts?” She half-shouted to the cashier two registers down, laughing to herself, then continuing to sing a song about dancing women that was playing in her head.

But I had the one lady who didn’t think that Sprouts was a locally-owned dream to work at. Thankfully, I was only buying an onion, and hopefully, a chance to clean my shit-smeared fingers.

As I began to pay, I mustered up the quietest, least threatening request for the keeper of the sanitizer, “Excuse me, I hate to ask but I have some crud on my hands. Do you mind if I use a squirt of your sanitizer?” Instantly I was thankful my brain chose “crud” instead of “stinky-ass-dog-shit” which was the more accurate description.

She agreed with her mouth, her eyes, however, were telling me that she was going to find me later to Tanya Harding me in the parking lot.


The excruciatingly ironic sight of a just made shit a mere foot from the sign begging you to pick up your dog’s shit.

I walked home in the middle of the street, despite beeps from angry drivers who clearly didn’t empathize with my shitty (get it?!) situation. But my shit day didn’t stop there. Because I had to take Tengo to the dog park to poop, which is the appropriate location for dog shit. At the park I was greeted by a gigantic turd pie IMMEDIATELY outside of the entrance to the park. It’s an approximate four second walk to the doggy bag station from this poop pile. If you’re reading this and you’re all like, sometimes you’re just in a rush and can’t pick up the poop, well then please send me your address so I can come take a huge dump on your lawn, right on the path you walk to your car every morning. And also, you’re the absolute worst. I seriously hate you so much — because I used to be you, when I was six years old and didn’t understand what personal responsibility meant. I seriously want to just poop everywhere I can in hopes that you step in it.

I don’t know how we have gotten to this wretched, dark place in doggy poop etiquette. The other day at Anna’s dog park, I picked up five shits that were not Tengo’s simply because I was offended. These turdlets were tiny and apparently this is common because tiny dog owners think their tiny dog poops are so tiny and cute that mystical turd fairies will come with little turd wands and turn it into compostable glitter. This is not the case.

Would you just leave your shit in a public toilet without flushing it? Because that’s what you’re doing, except worse, because people aren’t wading through public toilets to get to work. I swear to god if you assholes don’t start picking up your dog’s shit I’m starting a neighborhood poo watch and there will be consequences. And all you dog owners who can’t find the time to pick up your dog’s shit, please do me a favor and never have children. 

Do you want to join my dog poop watch club? Are you also severely concerned about the lack of dog poop etiquette? Do you need me to help you get dog shit off your shoe?

A Day in the Life of a Pack Leader (and other ways to entertain yourself without human interaction)

Something you might not know about me is that I take the dog whisperer philosophy very seriously. Caesar Milan is the closest to how I imagine God to be. He could even be God. Don’t you think God would want us all to get enough exercise, play happily together and be confident about our existence? Cesar thinks so. He also wants you to be a pack leader which is what I’ve thought of myself since age five so it works out.

So of course, when Anna, my former roommate and current person-I-do-everything-with (and sole person to wish this show was still on the air) asked me to dog-sit Manny for the week, I took my responsibilities very seriously, as any person overly obsessed with the Dog Whisperer would. I think I’m actually not allowed to watch the Dog Whisperer anymore when I am around my family due to an incident last vacation where I did nothing but watch the Dog Whisperer. It wasn’t so much of an incident as a purposeful move to avoid having to arbitrate drunken family lunacy.

Dog sitting Manny is like babysitting a chid I used to have joint custody of. Despite having an actual boyfriend, I can only imagine that Anna is often mistaken for my partner. But that is sort of accurate since we are PARTNERS IN CRIME (See what I did there?). But seriously, Anna and I went to college together and then she decided to follow me and move to Texas because she’s basically obsessed with me. (That’s why she has a super successful career and I’m unemployed.)

Anyways, we got Manny from Austin Pets Alive (an amazing organization) when we still lived together.

He was the little yapper that needed everybody’s attention and of course, since I completely identify with that behavior, I turned to Anna with my Disney princess eyes and asked, “Can we get him, Mom?”

As I type this, Manny is in the corner drooling on the rug as he breaths like Brainy from Hey Arnold. It’s just something he does to stay relevant.

There there is my dog, Tengo. He solves crime mysteries in his spare time and his favorite hobby is licking. I’m sorry, were you not aware that I was going to personify the dogs and create real life dialogue? If so, I don’t know what you think I do all day.

Since Manny has joined Team unemployed this is how most days start:

image (1)

I heard you promise yourself you’d wake up before 9:30 today!

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Wake up, idiot!

Note: They are both on top of me.

I stall a bit before getting out of bed because I am lazy and if you know how late I used to sleep you may understand better why I don’t have a job. I mean, I was talented. Not many people can sleep till five p.m. but this is something I did with style. Also, I may have been depressed for a large majority of my adolescence.

Either way, the dogs wanted out and what I wanted was to not have my legs stuck together with sweat and dog hair. Although the dogs have beds to sleep in next to ours, Tengo has a habit of burrowing under the blankets like a gopher then peeking his head out only to surprise himself in the mirror and then remember his battle with “mirror Tengo” and start barking. I have given up trying to get Tengo to forget about “mirror Tengo”–who am I to take away the most constant thing in his life?


He’s still out there, I know it.

Then it’s time for the park. The dog park is a thirty second walk from my apartment but I need to stop at Starbucks which is a two minute walk from my apartment so I take the car. If you understand the passion Manny has for squirrels you’d understand my decision. As I walk into Starbucks, I can tell everyone is like “Hey, look, it’s that girl we see at Starbucks,” and internally I’m all like, “Damn I wonder how much money is left on this gift card I got for leaving my job.”

And then I see the almost famous guy–no, not from the movie–he’s an actual person I take to be almost famous due to the fact he sits in front of Starbucks with his agent talking about how he can only take principal roles from now on. I also have devised a scheme to set him up with Anna. So I secretly take pictures of him while in my car and send them to her. She thinks he’s cute too.

When we get to the park I’m back in pack leader mode. I’m calm and assertive. I often wonder  how many people hate me in the apartments next to the dog park for screaming “LEAVE IT!”  at the top of my lungs or making the noise a buzzer at the end of a basketball game makes when “leave it” just isn’t enough. I’ve also wondered many times while walking Tengo with Matti, how many people whisper to the person their with, “At least I’m not like that girl.” Which is fine, because I’m that girl. I bring my dog aside when he’s being a total asshole and drown him in my calm, assertive energy. That’s what pack leaders do so I’m sorry girl with a Bichon Frise, I won’t take it down a notch.

I even bring treats to the park so I can call Tengo over randomly and give him one that way he associates me with food. Because that’s the foundation of every good relationship. Manny on the other hand is more worried about squirrels, or a moving tree, or a frog twelve miles away.

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It’s like there’s hundreds of them!

Yes, I am make them wait patiently like good like children before we leave. Remember, I am pack leader.

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Doggy prison!

What’s my reward you ask? This:

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Wait, are we sleeping again already?

And the fact I just got to write for an hour uninterrupted. I need more human friends…

17 Things to Do When You Are Unemployed

1. Write about being unemployed. Because who doesn’t want to hear about how you can’t support yourself?

2. Water your plants hurriedly so you’re neighbors can see how busy you are. What people think of you is super important so unless you want your neighbors to think you’re some lame-o who has plenty of time to do fun things take this advice.

3. Get in touch with all your friends you’ve been too busy for. They’ll feel super important when they know that your day full of nothingness can now involve caring about them again.

4. Watch every episode of Comedy Bang Bang. I shouldn’t have to explain this.

5. Make vegan cookies and eat them all yourself. Vegan means healthy, right?

6. Pretend people won’t stop taking your picture while going to the dog park. Again, social standing is key here. What kind of crazy person just normally walks their dog to the park?

7. Dress your dog up like Superman. This is just something really cute to do that takes the “look at that sad creature” attention off of you.

photo (77)

8. Create a game where you try to outsmart the monster wasps that live on your porch. It’s funner than admitting you’re terrified.

9. Come up with lists for other unemployed people. Because let’s share in our inability to support ourselves.

10. Plan dinner for the next ten days without ever making anything. Everyone knows the idea of super intensive recipes with spices and chopped veggies is really fun and super unrealistic.

11. Post pictures of yourself at pool to make employed people jealous. (Preferably while reading something like the New Yorker so people still think you’re an actively smart person).


12. Complain about how busy you are. Because you know how busy you actually should be.

13. Organize your thoughts in chronological order. If you can do this then why are you unemployed?

14. Reread the list of children’s name you made when you were ten. I bet the name Melanie or Melody or Kylie is there somewhere. It always is.

15. Try to play yourself in hangman. SUPER difficult.

16. Remember the red wedding from Game of Thrones and get pissed again. Does George R. R. Martin have a partner or is he completely heartless?

17. Get nostalgic about all the writing you did in college. Remember how important it was and how productive you were?

I guess I’ll look for jobs now…