I’m Not a Journalist (But I Can Tell You Where to Put It)
I used to want to be a journalist.
The rough plan was to cover wars. Then focus on domestic investigations. And then graduate to something less insane. The idea was to be on the ground with the troops.
When I graduated high school I was not excited at all about this path. The action, the bravery, uncovering what was really going on — that’s chock-full of excitement. But the industry of journalism wasn’t.
There’s an element of selfishness to want to be in on the action. It’s partly selfish to want to be an investigative journalist, to deep dive into exposes, to be the one who breaks the news, who shines light onto different and antagonistic perspectives, to be part of the team that gets the bad guys.
I didn’t want to be a journalist only for the sake of journalism. I wanted to be a journalist to afford myself a career as a writer.
I didn’t take that path.
I spent a long time fascinated with the underworld and the inconsistencies of Middle America. These interests made sense to me then.
I grew up loving papers and pens and books. My parents had magazine subscriptions but they only stuck with the local paper. I would buy the Sunday edition of the Chicago Tribune and New York Times. Not every week, but I would treat myself.
To me, that was legacy. It was exciting. Even if half the stories didn’t interest me, just having the paper and spreading it out was fun. I enjoyed reading the reviews.
things are different now. I’m in my mid-30s and I go out of my way to not read the news.
I entered adulthood during the Great Recession. I was 17 the year the iPhone came out. Things changed fast.
When I hit 26 I started asking myself, Is this how my parents felt? I should’ve cut them a lot more slack.
My household growing up wasn’t conservative or liberal. Politics, economics, music, sports, business, philosophy, psychology — we talked about these things all the time. But I was never told “You have to think this way.” I was afforded intellectual freedoms that most of my peers weren’t.
I was a prankster growing up. Arrogant. Egotistical. Entitled. Privileged. I was both bullied and bullying. I got in trouble a lot, especially in middle school and high school. I spent a good amount of time suspended.
I still have that prankster spirit, although it is much more tempered. “I laugh a lot,” I told a chick.
“Yeah, but when you laugh that usually means something bad has happened.”
Maybe so. But I still think it’s funny.
A shelf crashing down? Giggle. A surprising boom from somewhere in the back? Hehehehehe.
I developed a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves. I started that young, continued it as recently as … last month.
So no, I didn’t cover wars, I wasn’t on the ground with the troops, and I went an altogether different route than journalism.
Comedy and butt sex seemed to be a better way.
And if you need to know where to put it, I can tell you that too.
Swivels in, Swivels out.
