My Fart Will Go On
Man, what am I even supposed to say? Goodbyes can sniff my dong.
When I started at Jezebel, early in 2012, I’d been writing professionally for years but was still mired in impostor syndrome. I knew I had ideas and a voice (no shortage of voice), but was I right? Did my ideas deserve to be heard? (YOU DO NOT HAVE TO ANSWER THAT, KINJA.) Jezebel is where I learned to trust myself, to push. It’s where I really grabbed ahold of satire, realized the power of disguising tough topics as entertainment so they go down easy. It’s where I crystallized my worldview.
This job rules. It’s been the most thrilling, terrifying, and rewarding experience of my professional life. I get to write about farts AND abortions AND comedy AND fat ladies AND animal attacks AND Jurassic Park AND USE AS MANY ALL-CAPS AS I WANT. I am inexpressibly grateful and proud of the work I’ve done here. I will miss my coworkers every single stupid day.
But, anyway, I have a book to write and a blog to run and some naps to take and another thing to do that will be announced next week (follow me on Twitter!) and also maybe I’m just one of those shiftless, stir-crazy millennials who can’t stay at any job for more than a couple of years. IDK.
HOLD ME CLOSE TO YOUR HEARTS:
Because I am something of an earnest goober, I want to leave you with some real shit: You don’t have to be the Cool Girl. You don’t have to pander. You can be funny and sharp and responsible and humane all at the same time. But don’t be afraid to defend your boundaries. Call a dick a dick. Stuff is changing. We’re winning. NOW GO OUT AND GET IT. GET THE FUCK OUT OF IT. EAT IT. BITE IT. IT’S YOUR FOOD. I LOVE YOU.