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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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."
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.