Blatant Attempt To Land A Job In Journalism’s Big Leagues

I suffered a difficult and traumatic adolescence, plagued at one point by poverty so bad I came close to starvation and was reduced to eating raw vegetables I’d clawed by hand from the dirt in a neighbor’s seedy abandoned garden. But my belly couldn’t handle the harsh unwashed food so I became violently ill, there in the shattered ruins of all I once held dear, and sobbed quietly for a bit, utterly defeated.

Or so it seemed. But then I squared my thin, bedraggled shoulders and slowly arose, my plucky undernourished frame silhouetted against the dramatic blood-red sky, and raised my fist to said sky and defiantly cried out “As God is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again!”

This really happened. Or maybe I’m just remembering something a friend told me a few days ago. Either way it’s totally my own original work or at least an honest mistake on my part, and since I’ve demonstrated an ability to tell dramatic, self-pitying stories and borrow ideas as needed I see no reason why I shouldn’t be considered for the job of Token Redhead Columnist at the New York Times.