The Unforeseen Benefits of Not Going to an Ivy, #27:
Low Standards.
That said, it does feel vindicating to have this said about you at the alumni dinner of the first job you both created — editor of the school rag’s first Arts & Entertainment section, a gig I lied my way into with a 20-page proposal written in 72 hours high on fistfuls of Adderall and in a thick cloud of bong smoke, which somehow, like my completely fabricated GPA, went unnoticed — and were very ceremoniously fired from after being told that your influence was “nothing short of belligerent and debauched beyond a reasonable standard, even for a college student” when it was happening. Also, I was no longer a student at the school at that point, but details, whatever.
And I know, I know: not that I went to Chico State or anything, but yeah, it was (or is) Salt Lake City, Utah. But it’s been a shit week and despite the little-do-they-know factor of just how terrible I am, in fact, at my job in the “field of journalism,” it’s an accolade I no less wear with pride. I’m also serious about the honorary degree. I’ve already got like 3/10ths of a real one, Sundance is coming up in two months, and the call of the AltaBird is loud and clear. At the very least, it’d be a nice present for my dad.
