Really, I pity them. I did my time too: copying, filing, handing out mail. My fingers were paper-cut and coffee-stained; my soul, crushed. All for $7.15 an hour and a written recommendation. This is why I lived in an unheated sublet, accrued thousands in debt, and lost 20 pounds. (If you’re going to make me choose between food and liquor, I’ll take the latter.)
Internships are fundamentally unfair—a pseudo-slavery of the young, bright, and motivated. Hey, I was there. It’s a rite of passage. Today internships are a necessary evil after you get that liberal arts degree. Something about “connections.” Pay off your college loans later, bitch.
You know I don’t need that contract mailed tonight, but damn it, I’ll demand it. Copy this document. Now shred both. You’d better wear a tie tomorrow even though I slept in my clothes, and you think you still smell scotch on my breath. Whatever, intern (if that is your real name). I have health insurance and a 401k (whatever that is). This means I OWN YOU. (At least when my boss isn’t looking.)
And all you aspiring Should But Don’t interns, remember this: I like my coffee like I like my men—with whiskey.
Run along, now. Someday you’ll get your chance, too.