Recently, I’ve been frantically advertising myself in hopes of getting an internship this summer.

Packed with optimism and a freshly designed GRA 217: “Introduction to Graphic Design” resume, I was ready for magazine editors and internship coordinators alike to grovel at my feet, wondering why I hadn’t entered their lives sooner.

Ideally, this is what would happen:

First, they would smirk at my cover letter’s cleverness, unaware words could be arranged in such an impeccable order.

“Wow,” they would think. “This girl could not be a more perfect combination of charm and genuine hard work.”

Their eyes would light up as they turned to my resume, glancing up and down in awe at my qualifications.

“Wow,” they would think. “There’s enough experience here, but not too much that she might be a heartless robot.”

I would follow up, my timing impeccable, letting them know I was anxiously – but not too anxiously – awaiting their reply, with undertones of “I might be willing to perform sexual favors.”

Very faint undertones.

Finally, they would call and the interview would go smashingly. The internship coordinator would end up confiding in me about boy trouble and saying that this conversation was the highlight of her day.

“Of course,” I would say. “That’s what interns are for.”

I would email back later, thanking her for the interview.

And then — nothing.

With some variation, this is the story of how I didn’t get my dream internship.

And I thought, “Makes sense.” Up until now, things have been going much too well for me. Suspiciously well, even.

But now, without an internship, I finally have a shot of super stardom success.

Because how many Emmy, Mark Twain or Nobel Peace Prize winners start their speeches with, “Well, I went to college, had a few internships, graduated, got a job and here I am now, winning my second Nobel Peace Prize for writing a book so good it ended all human suffering?”

None.

With a whole summer in Boston of nothing to do but become an author bound for high school curriculum status, a whole world of options have opened up to me.

For example, I could leave the country. That ensures I’ll have a best-seller. Traveling cheap with the melodramatic attitude of a 20-year-old trying to “find” herself? That sh*t is pure gold.

I could also develop a drinking habit and wander around the city. All great authors have spent days aimlessly wandering, thinking about life, developing characters. Hell, maybe I’ll even get thrown in jail or get sent to rehab. People eat up recovery stories.

Then, there’s modeling.

I was on Craigslist looking for freelance writing work. As anyone who’s been on Craigslist knows, the process goes something like this: First, you’re in the writing section. Then, you zone out and find yourself frantically closing the picture of an erect penis with the text “actual size.”

This time, though, I navigated safely to the “talent” section, looking at paid modeling opportunities.

“Hey, I could do that,” thought 2 a.m. Sarah.

So I sent a reply to a seemingly safe offer: “College female…demonstrates the various shapes…of the female form…conservative look…$1,500.”

I received a response the next morning. After some email banter of me trying to figure out if the project was sketchy, and the person on the other end trying to figure out if I wasn’t horrible looking without blatantly asking, it finally came out: “Now we do wish to be honest and tell you that nudity will be required as part of these shoots.”

I did not follow up on this opportunity.

As of now, I have one last shot at an internship, but it’s probably best if I don’t get it. All you people with your fancy Upworthy or Nylon internships might feel like you’re on the right track now, but we’ll see who wins in the end.

Assuming I don’t get kidnapped via Craigslist first.

Sarah Schuster is a sophomore magazine journalism major. Her column appears weekly in Pulp. She can be reached at [email protected].

Published on April 25, 2013 at 12:45 am