Broom broom and farewell, everyone.
Today is my last day at Jezebel — an occasion that has caused me to cry in the line for the office taco buffet, a location in which I previously thought it was impossible to feel sorrow.
I feel so unbelievably lucky to have worked here. Upon leaving, everyone always says that writing for Jezebel was their dream, so I realize that I am sort of trotting out a cliche, but it's true. It was my dream before I even knew what Jezebel was: in high school, after I announced my plan to pursue the field of womyn's studies at a formerly all-women's and now only vaguely co-ed college, I found myself repeatedly faced with the question of what the hell I was planning to do with it. This question was usually posed by well-meaning family friends and family members; eventually, I developed a fun little routine that I would do because I was tired of hearing it. I would tell concerned adults inquiring about my future plans that I hoped to become a professional feminist with a sponsor (which is like a professional skateboarder with a sponsor, but instead of doing tricks you yell about the patriarchy in logo-branded apparel). The point of the joke was to dismiss Practical Adult Concern; the punchline was that no one will ever pay me for doing what I want to do. The fact that I'm now doing exactly what I want to do as a job feels dizzyingly, exhilaratingly improbable.
Working at Jezebel, in other words, was a dream I didn't know I could even feasibly have. It's been incredible, and I feel so fortunate: in my time here, I've been able to cover such a wide breadth of topics — from college administrations' malignant negligence in dealing with sexual assault to fashion to sex work to dicks to the downy demon clinging malevolently to Justin Bieber's upper lip (by far the most important of all my beats).