I’m thinking of becoming an escort.
Dear Kim Kardashian,
I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you look like, I don’t know what your hair looks like, and I don’t know whether, as a general rule, you think it’s acceptable to eat more than two pieces of salmon sashimi on the first or any date (hint: it isn’t). What I do know is that our lives/careers/love lives usually end up taking unexpected turns, and asking me to predict those turns is literally impossible so thanks for setting me up for failure. I mean, did I ever think I was going to become a published author? Or fuck an unnamed member of the Lakers? Or discover that my mom was a really chic lesbian supermodel? Or become a published author again? Not really.
So even though I’m pretty sure this is a bad (and potentially catastrophic) career move there’s really no way for me to tell you that you shouldn’t do it. Who knows, you might meet a super successful, super handsome Greek heir who sweeps you off your feet, marries you on a beach in Mykonos, and moves you into a devastatingly chic penthouse overlooking the Med. On the other hand, you could also just end up spending your time entertaining a bunch of sweaty, awkward, pale pharmacists who look like Jonah Hill, spit when they talk, fantasize about wearing your skin as a suit, and, even though you continually refuse, keep trying to pay you in Mexican pesos.