Yeah, it’s true. I didn’t get this job because I’m the funniest person on the paper. Or the smartest. Or even the most devastatingly beautiful. Shocking, I know. I am all those things, but that’s not why they made me Editor-In-Chief. They gave me this job because I look the most responsible.
At one of our many secretive and exclusive socials, the host and former editor—who shall remain nameless for the purpose of protecting public faith in his judge of character—pointed to me, still a mere writer, and said, “Anya, I have to leave for half an hour. Make sure no one burns my house down.” Out of sheer curiosity, I asked, “Perchance, [REDACTED], why choose me, a lowly comedy apprentice for this demanding task?”
In response, he answered with the most devastatingly accurate summation of both my appearance and character: “You just look responsible.” Not only was this accusation a blow to my self-esteem as the homeliest member of the group, but the immediate clocking of my hyper-cautious personality shook me to the core.
And yet, that single interaction has delivered me into the prestigious office I hold today because it is undeniably true. I seem like a mom, act like a mom, and am shaped like a mom, so I might as well be the Designated Mom of the Paper. I’ve even caught staffers accidentally calling me “Mom” from time to time in a potentially Freudian manifestation of my role as their leader. This is simply my burden to carry.
Still, I wear my title as a badge of pride. Whether by legitimate means or not, I was in fact named Editor-In-Chief by my loyal constituents and slightly irresponsible coworkers. In any case, it has been an honor to answer your emails, attend your UAC meetings, and run your shit for the entirety of my tenure. Now, good luck without me, fuckers.