Page 4 of Cuts like a Knife
There are a lot of people like Dani in the world, even outside of so-called journalism. I don’t want to pretend she’s the only one. I myself am a grade-A jerk, at least, that’s my work persona, but at least I’m straightforward about it. I try to keep my meanness politely veiled. It’s there, but it sort of lives in the footnotes, if that makes sense. In contrast, Dani hides it entirely. You have to watch out for people like that — the sneaky types. (Which is why I don’t feel bad about slamming her frizzy hair.)
At the same time, I do sort of like Dani. Among people who work in media, and despite how annoying she is, she also pretty okay. And it’s not like there’s anyone else around for me to talk to. Maybe my relationship with her is a platonic any-port-in-the storm situation.
However, the bottom line is that Dani cannot be trusted, which is why I think of us as frenemies. It isn’t quite accurate, but there’s no real word for what we are. We’re friendly, but we are colleagues, not friends. I work hard to remember that.
Okay, so here’s where I admit that I don’t have a lot of real friends. I used to. I used to have plenty of friends. Or so I thought. I’ve wised up.
It’s just that almost no one can be trusted.
I have my sisters. There’s that. I’ve even told them about Dani, prompting my sister Claire to send me a series of texts with links to a bunch of articles that I guess she expects me to read?
Five types of frenemies and the signs that you have one
The science of frenemies
The three types of frenemies
Frenemies at work
Behind frenemy lines
Fun fact: I will never read these articles.
Anyway, this is work, so who cares? I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make rent.
It wasn’t always this way.
I wasn’t always this way.
No time to think about that now.
Must work.
Focus Lex, I tell myself. Focus on transcribing this mindless, garbage article.
I need to get this piece done so I can file and it never ever think about it ever again. I’m putting together one of my scintillating monthly columns. Transcribing it. I won’t say writing because despite what everyone thinks this fantastic “journalism” gig entails, it is absolutely, positively not about writing. To call it writing would be an insult to actual writers everywhere.
The column I’m on right now is called How They Met — 10 inches (don’t get me started on why we still use inches here, it’s just one of Lars’ many affectations) on a local (read: insignificant) “celebrity couple”. This time around (and remember, I do this every single month) I’ve managed to secure a mid-level ballerina and her now-husband, the owner of a hipster taco truck.
The column comes with a byline, which is something I used to care about, before I knew better.
Scratch that. Must stay positive. Grateful.
Look, it’s an amazing little column and a great little magazine. How often does one get to work on super creative writing and hard-hitting journalism at the same time like this? Like, it’s all the best things about being a media professional rolled into one delightfully fluffy shell! I’m lucky! Lucky to be here ! It’s a great job! I love it.
I love it like Emily Blunt in The Devil Wears Prada. It doesn’t make me want to pop a cyanide tablet at all. Not even a little bit.
I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.
Isn’t that the line?
Sigh.
Okay, that’s it. Can’t take it. Need a breather.
I pop the droning earbud out of my ear and snatch my phone from its face-down position on the desktop. The flood of notifications is like a balm to my soul.
Work is work. It is not my real life. Citidaze “magazine” (sarcastic air quotes by me) is just my day job. My real life is out there, in the world, with everyone else. I need to work, but it doesn’t define me. As long as I think this way, I can survive.
