The New York Times just hired this former sex writer as a metro section columnist, and a cursory web search revealed that she not only penned that crazy Glamour story about the insane Conde Nast lady who hired both an egg donor and a surrogate mother, she has NAKED PHOTOS OF HERSELF floating around...her house.
Once we got started, I was surprised by how instinctively I seemed to know which way to twist, where to place my arm for optimal flattery. There are ways we position ourselves during sex for appeal, or maybe for accessibility, but the experience is too blurry, too sped up, for us even to notice at the time. Now I noticed the positioning of every finger. Luxuriating before the camera that day indulged something that I'd apparently long been craving: it was a revelry of attention.
See, she got the photos taken after she lost 10 pounds jogging. And here's betting she kept off the weight, because she just landed one of the most coveted jobs in journalism!
So yeah, who am I, high priestess of Overshare, to snark? Well yeah, fuck you, but seriously, this isn't about Susan. It's about the fact that there are a lot of skills required to make great journalism, and most of them come a lot less instinctively than posing for a sexy photo shoot.
I would try to acquire some of them, but I am too busy writing about myself. But: a small to-do list:
I would like to learn calculus, and how to use Excel. I hear both things are helpful for understanding how the economy works, because I would like to figure out a way it could reward people who work hard the way it rewards people who promote hard. I would like to learn a foreign language fluently; I hear those are helpful for finding out about the five billion or whatever that don't speak mine. I would like to learn more about the world's religions, because I would like to think that there is some way that the human desire to be good and believe in a force more just than Darwinism and free trade can be channeled as something a little more productive than the demonization of sex/blowing up of shit. And I would like to finally get through Guns, Germs And Steel. Definitely if I did this shit, I would make a better journalist. But no one would know about it!
So anyway, did I tell you how I had sex with an ex-boyfriend the other night, but I feel like it "doesn't count" because we're no longer infatuated with one another, just kind of sad and desperate? Yeah, you run out of material quick this way.