Dear Washington Post Editors:
Remember me? I sent you my newspaper story about the gas truck that leaked hundreds of gallons of gas in my small central Pennsylvanian hometown along with my exposé on the relocation of our fire station, an in-depth profile about a local woman with 800 plants in her house, and my impassioned editorial about the washer/dryers and candy machines eating our quarters in the college dorms.
For some reason, you didn’t find my editorializing on student annoyances at a small liberal arts college and reporting on pie-eating contents at county fairs and rubber duckie races at Memorial Day picnics (for a local newspaper with a circulation of about 35,000) as appropriate experience to cover hard-hitting political news in our Nation’s Capital.
So, thanks to you, I stayed on the county fair and fireman’s festival beat in central Pennsylvania during the summer of 1995 as the world’s most notorious intern arrived in D.C. While Monica Lewinsky hung out under Bill Clinton’s desk in the Oval Office, I reported on sewer leaks, pothole controversies, and animal ordinances involving potbelly pigs as pets.
Eventually, I quit journalism all together, developed severe writer’s block, went to graduate school in Texas, found a husband, popped out four kids, and became a librarian.
Almost 15 years after being your internship reject, all is good. The husband is great, the kids are amazing (good looking and smart too), and my job excites and challenges me. I even started writing again. Got my own blog with seven semi-loyal followers.
Thank you Washington Post for not hiring me as your summer intern in 1995.
Sincerely,
Garbageman’s Daughter
