I had to edit an article titled "5 Writing Jobs for the Modern Era" first thing this morning, and I was fucking pumped. I love killing articles; this was going to be a bloodbath. The freelance "writer" who shat it out is completely illiterate. Even if the writing was great, there would still be heavy edits due to the bullshit subject matter. All lies, unless some of those jobs involved fellatio, suicide, drug and alcohol problems, long-term poverty, or mopping up spooge from those video closets at the dildo store.
 
The article did not include any of those things. In fact, a few sections (which might as well have been written in crayon) attempted to encourage young English majors by telling them about the fabulous salaries they would soon make—complete horseshit.
 
Here are the jobs the original article suggested with some real-world examples of what those jobs entail and my experience with them.
 
1. Blogger
A blogger writes random shit on the internet. I hate bloggers and I hate the internet. (Yes, I'm fully aware that this is a blog on the internet.)
 
I had an interview for a blogger job a few years back.
 
Interviewer: So, Trey, tell me why you want to be a blogger.
 
Me: I don't, really. But I like to eat.
 
Interviewer: Um.
 
Me: But really, I think bloggers are the new journalists and I want to be a part of the zeitgeist.
 
Interview: What kind of virality do you think you can create?
 
Me: One sec, I just puked in my mouth a little bit.
 
Interviewer: We'll be in touch.
 
2. Social Media Writer
A social media writer writes posts for social media, usually promoting some brand. You might also respond to customer complaints and shit like that. I've actually done this job for a company that is NOT Airbnb.
 
Customer: The house I stayed in SUX their were hidden cameras under the toilet seat and I know your going to TRY to sell my PICs on the internet, I want my MONEY back or else I'm going call YOU out on twitter I have 217 followers!!!!! I'll put you right OUT OF bizzNESS!!!!!!!! (Grammatical and spelling mistakes are those of the customer.)
 
Me: First of all, there are no hidden cameras anywhere in that home. Second of all, no one, and I mean no one, wants to see your nasty ass and/or vagina. I can see the picture next to your name, lady. Gross. Finally, I don't give a shit. Go. Fuck. Your. Self….Hold on. How in the fuck does a person as stupid as you are have a job that pays enough to rent a vacation home in Lake Tahoe? Fuck this job. I kwit!  
 
The company I worked for did not like this response and neither did Facebook.
 
3. UX Writer
I don't really want to explain this job, but "UX" stands for user experience. "Writing" stands for writing, sort of. Here's how my interview for that one went.
 
Interviewer: Trey, tell me about your background in user experience.
 
Me: Well, UX didn't exist until five minutes ago, so…
 
Interview: Thank you, Mr. BLANK. We'll be in touch.
 
Me: Fuck.
 
4. Copywriter
This is ok work if you can get it and you don't mind starting out poor as fuck. I've had a shitload of interviews for this role.
 
Interviewer: So, Trey, give me a little of your writing background.
 
Me: Um, well, I've written a lot of stuff. I was even chosen to read one of my stories at the Dallas Museum of Art. I also have a master's degree. (This was early on in my career, so I figured the dude would give me the job on the spot and show me to my office.)
 
Interviewer: What kind of stuff do you write? (He did air quotes.) Ad copy?
 
Me: Not exactly, but if you think about it, isn't all writing trying to sell something? Know what I mean?
 
Interview: Not exactly. (He paused and looked at my resume.) It says here you've published short fiction in various literary journals, including international publications.
 
Me: That's true.
 
Interviewer: So you're a real writer? (air quotes again)
 
Me: Yes. (What the fuck is that supposed to mean?)
 
Interviewer: I think you're over qualified.
 
Me: I think you should go fuck yourself.

Anyway, I had to rewrite the entire thing, and here's what I got.
 
Three Realistic Job Options for English Majors
 
So you decided to not listen to your parents and major in English. Maybe you wanted to write the Great American Novel. Maybe you just loved reading. Maybe you have some of sort of delusional personality disorder. Maybe you heard about all the pussy you'll get as a writer (see previous sentence). No matter why you made this horrid decision, you're about to graduate and you have no idea what to do with yourself.
 
You're in luck! Here are three jobs perfect for undergrad English majors:
 
1.  Pizza Delivery Man
Delivering pizzas is pretty great. You get to drive around by yourself, smoking cigarettes and listening to music. There are asshole customers, but you're only with them for 30 seconds. If you're a good drunk driver, you can even have a couple of tall-boys toward the end of your shift. You might make enough money to support yourself, but you also might have to stay with your mom for a bit. Bonus: you might get laid from time to time—but it won't be because you're a writer.
 
Clichés are clichés for a reason, so yes, you might get invited in to fuck a lonely housewife from time to time.
 
WARNING: ONLY FUCK LONELY HOUSEWIVES IN FANCY NEIGHBORHOODS. TRUST ME ON THIS ONE.
 
This one summer in grad school, I was delivering pies in a super fancy neighborhood. It was hot as fuck and the air conditioner in my car was broken. I had a sweat stripe across the front of my shirt and my back was a swamp. Anyway, I show up at this lady's house and she says, "Oh my god! You poor thing! Come in out of the heat. Do you want a bottle of water? Maybe something a little stronger?" Wink.
 
"Sure!"
 
She was also hot as fuck. Probably 35, which seemed a little old to me at the time. But again, she was hot as fuck. I could see her kids playing in the pool out back. There was an old Mexican lady out there who I assumed was the nanny. The AC felt so good and her house smelled like a candle store. She sat me down on one of the bar stools at her kitchen island, gently rubbing her manicured nails across my back as she did so. "I'm Trish, by the way."
 
"Trey. Nice to meet you." I smiled.
 
"Very nice to meet you." She went to the fridge and opened both doors, bending over much farther than she needed to to get the water on the bottom shelf. She was wearing short, low-rise jean shorts with white paint splotches on them. She straightened and grabbed an Amstel Light—which I though was super fancy back then—off the top shelf. "One for the road, one for here?" she asked. "And don't worry, my husband's out of town so he won't notice a missing beer."
 
I hadn't been thinking about what her husband might think at all, but I'm pretty sure that she was just telling me that he was out of town and we could fuck. But I was young and didn't think about that kind of shit happening in real life. Ah, the innocence…
 
Long story short, I went back to her house when I got off work. Her kids were in bed, fast asleep, and we had drinks by the pool. Then we fucked on a lounge chair. It was awesome, except that she started crying right after we finished. (Jesus Christ, I have boner just thinking about it 15 years later.) I felt pretty wack at the time, thinking my wiener made her cry or something like that. Pulling out of her neighborhood, as I was lighting a cigarette, I fucking started to cry for some reason, and it didn't have a goddamn thing to do with my wiener, her fabulous pussy, or anything else I could put my finger on.
 
Now that I'm an older gentleman, I've realized that her crying didn't really have shit to do with me. My crying was probably due to my growing alcoholism and feeling like a failure and shit like that.
 
After that night, the Mexican nanny came to the door when I came with a delivery. I was a bit sad about it at the time, but then again, you can't really complain about free beer and pussy.
 
So yeah, delivering pizzas is a pretty good option for a newly graduated English major.

2. Assistant Model Home Attendant
This job is also pretty great. You sit in a model home all day and wait for people to come in. If you're the assistant you don't have to do anything but say hi and hand out brochures to potential home buyers. If you're the assistant, you only work weekdays, so almost no one ever comes in.
 
While you're waiting to say hi to people and hand them brochures, you can basically do whatever you want. Watch movies, jerk off, whatever. (In fact, I finished the first draft of my novel in a model home.) You can take naps. You can get drunk. You could fuck.
 
This one day, I was practicing for a solo show I had coming up. I was running through my acoustic rendition of "Highway to Hell" and started to get a little horny. It had been a long time and I was thinking about groupies—well, not groupies exactly, but nice young ladies who might want to hear a Christopher Cross/Megadeth mashup. My boner was making it hard to concentrate, and masturbation seemed like the only remedy. This was back when porn was not readily accessed from cell phones, so I had to use my mind. I was imagining this one cheerleader from 10th grade who had some badass knockers. I had a whole scenario where she came to my show completely at random and then we finger-banged. Anyway, right as I was about to put my hand down her panties, the goddamn door chime went off.
 
Oh fuck!
 
I quickly pulled up my khakis and tucked in my Centex Homes polo, all of a sudden wondering if they had cameras in the bathroom. I walked into the living room and saw a dude I'd seen before and his kid.
 
"Trey! How's it goin? Is Bob here today? I wanna take a look at the house again."
 
"Good to see you, Jim," I said. "No, Bob isn't here today, but I can give you the key."
 
"Great, great!"
 
I was turning around to get the key out of the office when I heard him say, "Trey, you play guitar?"
 
"Sorta." I'd forgotten my guitar was leaning against the fake couch.
 
"Play us a song!"
 
Fuck. "Nah, you don't want to hear a song. I'm not very good."
 
"Little Bobby here really wants to hear a song. Look at this face. How could you say no?"
 
Shit. "Okay, just let me grab the key."
 
My mind went blank and couldn't think of one song they might like. My version of "Sailing" was nowhere near ready. I picked up the guitar anyway and noodled around for a second before remembering that I knew how to play "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away." I played the shit out of that.
 
They both clapped when I finished. Then Bob said, "Trey, that's some great guitar work, but you're no John Lennon."
 
"No shit?"
 
And in case you're wondering, I didn't get it on with any nice young ladies after that show. Not even a finger-bang.
 
According to PayScale you can make enough money to move out of your mom's house, but just barely.
 
3. Blood, Semen, and Poop Purveyor
Selling blood, semen, and poop seems like the best job on the planet to me. I have plenty and I can make more. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, blood, semen, and poop purveyors make an average annual salary of $41,350, and the growth outlook is 7% between 2018 and 2028.
 
Unfortunately for me, my blood, semen, and poop are probably not of the highest quality. I have diabetes blood, and I'm 100% no one wants my poop. It's been a wreck back there since the 90s for various reasons, including but not limited to anxiety, alcoholism, bad diet, cigarettes, weed, LSD, graduate school, beer, Jaeger, and a missing gall bladder. I'm not totally sure about my semen. I haven't every gotten any chicks pregnant besides possibly that one girl from ping pong tournament back in 01.
 
So there you go, English majors. Get out there and make that money!
 
 
I apologize for any typos or other shit I may have missed. Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101. Share everywhere. I'll give you free stuff and my everlasting love and affection.

My friend PH called me a few weeks ago to tell me about robot babies coming out of robot vaginas. “Yeah, that shit’s crazy,” he said. “Real robot babies coming out of real fucking robot vaginas!” I couldn’t even count the ways this intrigued me. First of all, robots are fucking cool. I’m not a techno-geek or anything like that; I just like the idea of robots doing shit for me. I used to dream of robots getting me beers while I was watching the World Cup and shit like that.
 
And then there was the robot vagina. Jesus Christ, the possibilities were endless. Before I go on, I must tell you that I’m not one of those dudes who fucks machines or fake vaginas or anything like that. I kick it old school. Just give me a bottle of Jergins and a good internet connection, and I’m ready to go. Anyway, I had to know more.
           
“Dude, where did you hear about this? I need details.”
           
“Well, Laura…” Laura is his wife and she delivers babies for a living—mid-wife, I think you call it. “She was at work and she was getting prepped for some students who were coming in the next week when they wheeled in this robot vagina.”
           
“No shit?”
           
“No shit. It’s not just a vagina either. It’s got legs and a belly and all that. It might even have tits. I didn’t want to ask about that though.”
           
“And robot babies come out of there?” I said.
 
“Oh yeah. It’s some new training tool. She said they video it, making sure the hand movements are correct and all that.”
 
“That sounds like a very realistic robot pussy.”
 
“Oh yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he said.
 
We talked a little more about it, and then we talked about his kids and work and shit like that. When we got off the phone, I tried to look this up on the internet. I searched “robot vaginas,” “robot babies,” and everything else I could think of. I found a bunch of sex toys, some tiny robots, but no real robot pussy. My attention span is pretty short when I’m doing research, so I kind of gave up after twenty minutes. I smoked some cigarettes, watched a Hilary Duff movie, and went to sleep. That night I dreamed about robot poon tang.
 
I usually take dreams as some sort of sign. Usually it’s a sign for me to call up some ex-girlfriend and see if she wants to have sex. (That almost never works, by the way.) Anyway, I knew I had to find one of these robot pussies and try to fuck it. I knew exactly where to go.
 
I could have gone to Baylor, where Laura works, but I didn’t want her to know what I was up to. She might get pissed off at PH for telling me about it. Presbyterian Dallas was the place. I pretty much lived at that fucker for four months last year, due to a horrible drinking accident which ended with my pancreas exploding. Anyway, I knew where everything was and secret ways to get there. I took a shower and hopped in my car.
 
Driving up to the hospital kind of scared me, like a flashback or something. I pushed that out of my mind and thought of robot pussy. I imagined again how realistic that shit must be. I mean, if your hand movements have to be correct, then the robot pussy must have robot pussy muscles, right? I kind of got a boner driving into the parking lot. I got out of my car and smoked in the no-smoking zone to piss off this one security bitch. (She kept trying to get me kicked out of the hospital—even while I had tubes and IVs and shit everywhere.)
           
I said Hi to the gift-shop chicks and this nurse I knew who was sitting in the lobby. I rode up the elevator with fifty people, and they all looked sick. I used a shitload of hand sanitizer the second I got off the elevator. I was wondering what I should say when I got to the nurse’s station when I got the baby floor, but I was like, fuck it. I walked up and waited for someone to notice me. It took a while, which didn’t surprise me. “Hi, I’m Trey, and I was wondering where the robot babies and vaginas are.”
 
“The what?” she said. She wasn’t quite as friendly as I’d hoped.
 
“Well, I’m about to start mid-wife school, and I want to see the robot vaginas.” I was sure that would get me right in.
 
“Are you from Building Three?” Building Three was where they kept the crazies, the drug addicts, and the retards.
 
“No. I just wanted to see what I’m getting into, and I figured y’all wouldn’t let me see any actual vaginas.”
 
“You’re right about that,” she said. “But we don’t have any robot babies or robot vaginas here. Can you hold on a sec?” She picked up the phone and dialed the security extension. I’d seen that shit enough to know. I knew she was lying about the robot pussies too; I could just about smell them.
 
“Thanks,” I said and walked as quickly as I could to the elevators. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor to hide out and say hi to some of my nurses. Unfortunately, none of the hot ones were there, but neither was the super-mean Asian one. Shay was there, and she hugged me hard and told me I looked great. I loved her; I never had to ask her for my pain shot, and she never talked about me getting addicted or how I shouldn’t be smoking cigarettes. Big black ladies make badass nurses. (That wasn’t a racist statement when I wrote this.) We chatted for a few minutes, and then I walked to the stairwell in the back by the ice machine.
 
As you might know, hospitals are fucking mazes. It can be a bitch to just find the right room. But behind the scenes, it’s crazy. It’s like that shit in The Shining, except that it smells like shit, piss, and chemicals. Luckily, after you’ve lived in a hospital you know the back ways. I knew I couldn’t go right back to the baby floor because the security people might still be looking for me. I walked down the stairs and through the emergency room to smoke out back. I smoked three cigarettes to pass the time before I couldn’t wait any longer.
 
I walked back to the second floor and grabbed a plastic gown and some gloves. (For some reason, the second floor is totally empty.) I walked up the back stairs to the third floor and poked my head out the door. I didn’t see that bitch nurse or any cops, so I let my gut guide me to the robot pussy. I walked passed the back elevators and through a door marked “Do Not Enter.” Those signs don’t mean shit, especially if you act like you know where you’re going. The ones they don’t want you to enter are locked.
 
I went through a series of rooms with all sorts of medical equipment. All these back rooms have at least two doors—if not four—so I knew I could make a quick escape if I needed to. Three or four rooms in, I ran into a doctor. I could tell he was an intern, so I wasn’t nervous. He said, “Sir, can I help you?”
 
“Yeah, man. I’m just looking for my wife. I’m totally lost.”
 
He seemed to be used to freaked-out and lost husbands, and he gave me directions to the nurses’ station. I back-tracked and went around the room he was in. Three rooms later, I saw her. Holy fucking grail.

 She was lying on one of those things with the stirrups, and the robot vag was staring me in the face. She was wearing a gown, but they didn’t have the decency to cover up her business. (This is very fucking common. I swear to god, my jacked-up dick was hanging out for three weeks while I was in a coma.) She wasn’t quite as sexy as I’d hoped; she looked like a mannequin/crash-test dummy. There were plastic panels all over her. The look on her face was awful. It was like she was right in the middle of shooting a robot baby out of her robot snatch. I had no idea where to start.
 
I walked closer and saw a control panel. There were various scenarios on the screen, but “Fuck” wasn’t an option. None of the options looked sexy, so I didn’t start any of them. I looked around and stuck my finger in her pussy. It was dry and rubbery, and something stopped my finger and three inches in. There was no way my pecker was going in there. I decided to open up her belly panel and see what was going on. This was a bad idea.
 
The cavity was filled with blood and shit and the fucking robot baby. That little fucker had some sort of a piston up its butt. It was that damn robot baby who was blocking my finger. I thought about trying to unscrew him or whatever, but I didn’t want to touch all that shit in there. I realized that if I was going to fuck this robot chick, I was going to have to help her give birth. I went back to the control panel and pushed the “Birth” button.
 
The second I hit the button, she started screaming and scared the fuck out of me. I looked for the volume knob but couldn’t find it. I put my hand over her mouth, hoping she would quickly shut the fuck up. Right as I did that, she ripped a monster fart and some doo-doo type substance came out of her butt. Jesus Christ, this is realistic, I thought. I figured that the robot baby would shoot right out of her snatch in no time, but five minutes later, there was nothing but the moaning and bowel sounds. No more poop yet, so that was good. I was really going to have to do some work now.
 
“Push,” I said. She groaned. “Come on girl, push.” Bowel noise and a little more poo. “You’re dilated to fifty centimeters.” She didn’t say shit. Goddammit. I started breathing like a maniac like they do in the movies, but that didn’t do anything. 
 
I decided to massage the robot pussy, hoping that would help things along, but the second I touched it, some bloody, robot pussy juice squirted me in the face. I almost puked. She screamed again, and I felt like I’d sort of violated her. “Sorry,” I said. I was going to need some professional help to get this baby out. I had to call Laura. (One time Laura and I got super drunk and passed out on the bathroom floor together, so we were pretty tight.)
           
“Hey, Laura. I need some help.”
 
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
 
“Um, well, you know that robot vagina you told PH about?”
 
“Yeah.” She was starting to sound wary.
 
“I’ve sort of run into one, and I need to help it give birth.”
 
“Are you fucking serious?” she said. Then, “Of course, you’re fucking serious. What’s wrong with you?”
 
“Come on.”
 
“I don’t have time for this. You need to get out of there before you get arrested.” She hung up on me. I guess our drunken bonding moment meant nothing to her.
 
I looked at the control panel again noticed a button that said, “Next.” I pushed it and walked back around to the business end. When I got there, a robo-turd flew out and hit me in the face. I wiped it off and told her to push. (Any idea of fucking this thing had gone out the window, but I would be damned if I was going to leave her to give birth alone.) Then I noticed that her pussy had opened up a bit, and I could see the head. “That’s right, girl. Keep pushing.” I did the breathing thing again, and more blood and shit squirted out. But once again, things seemed to stop.
 
I went back to the control panel and pushed the “Next” button again. Man, that’s when shit went wild. That pussy opened up and the baby robot shoulders started to come out. Hell yeah, I thought. I started yanking on that little fucker’s head, saying “push,” and breathing like crazy. No matter how hard I yanked on him though, he wasn’t going anywhere. I pushed the “Next” button again.
 
She screamed, bloody pussy juice flew out around the baby, and he popped all the way out. Unfortunately, he was still attached to the piston thing, so I unscrewed him and wrapped him in my gown. Of course, I slapped his little butt first, but he didn’t start crying. Goddamn, I was relieved. I had successfully delivered my first baby. I positioned her arms and put him there. “Good job,” I said. “You have a baby boy.”
 
“Ugh,” she said.
 
I was so proud, I thought about going to a bar with my buddies and buying some cigars. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. That’s when there was a knock on the door.
 
Like most hospital fuckers, they didn’t wait til I said “come in” before they busted in the door. It was that bitch nurse. I flicked some of the bloody juice in her face and ran out the other door. I could hear her screaming for security and telling me to stop, but I was hauling ass—already missing my robot baby. I ran down three flights of stairs and straight out the back door. I got to my car and flew past the parking attendant without paying. Finally, I was on Central Expressway, feeling home free. Son of a bitch, that was close.
 
When my breathing finally slowed and I knew I wasn’t going to get caught, I thought about my baby. I knew I was never going to see him again, and I couldn’t stop crying. I almost stopped to get a bottle of bourbon, but realized that I would probably end up back at the hospital. If I lived this time, I would be going straight to jail, so fuck that.
 
I think about my robot baby all the time, and I wonder how he’s doing. When I go to sleep at night, I imagine a nice robot house with his robot mom and a nice robot dad. I picture his first steps and camping trips and soccer games. The first day of school. Graduation. Him going off to college. Sometimes I cry, and sometimes I go to sleep smiling.

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