Attention aspriring English majors...

"I sunk to the lowest realm of freelance writing today," I mumbled from the kitchen doorway.

Mike scrubbed at a dinner plate over the sink and laughed. "Ha. What'd you do--write someone's online dating profile?"

I sunk into a chair and hung my head in shame. Mike turned off the sink and laughed. "Seriously?" I shrugged my shoulders and pressed my chin further into my chest. "Heather...." he said with his most fatherly, disappointed voice, prodding me for more information.

"I was young! I needed the money..." I cried with all the desperate passion I could muster. "He needed a biography written for dating sites, and I did it! I did it! It was $50 for 30 minutes of work, and I did it!" Still, I put my face in my hands. "I'm so ashamed...."

Today, I'm writing nightlife reviews for Atlantic City, and you can imagine that's quickly going nowhere good. As I'm scrolling through 'Theatre' reviews for the city to avoid any 'Entertainment' venues I might not want to see, I click from Atlantic City Boardwalk Hall (a beautiful modern, civic center for symphonies) to Men of the Cave, a dance hall for... well, I don't know. I don't know how all that works. Is it for men? For women? Both? Does it matter? What am I doing here in the first place? Yesterday I'm editing missions grants and now I'm practically reviewing what bar has the best strippers.

Living the dream, man. Living the dream....