So one minute I’m just me, halfway done with my dead-end liberal arts career, wearing things like size 3 jeans and clearance rack shirts. Embarrassing, I know. But the next minute I’m waiting in the elevator of the Rochester Art Center, hearing the floompers walking around the ground floor (I call them floompers because that’s the sound their crocs make when they’re walking around in their Crocs all over the place, floomp floomp floomp…).
I know what you’re thinking. That being an unpaid intern working for the Art Center’s public program’s director is going to change me. That my new Crocs-clad boss is going to shove a claw down my throat, pull out my soul, feed it to her 18-month old baby, then turn me into a snobby art slave. That she’ll convince me that the most important thing in life is to trample over all the little people in order to come out on top. That she’ll make me risk my very life just to get her a DVD of the unreleased final Harry Potter movie. That she’ll get me to wear things that belong on 3-year olds.
But never fear. I promise that I am at least a little bit stronger than anyone Anne Hathaway has ever portrayed (except maybe Mia Thermopolis).
Pro-Procrastination 
