Before you read on, the obvious must be answered: No, I am not doing this to get closer to Caity Weaver. Her third legal injunction sent a clear message.
Prior to my East Coast move in 2010 when I was but a starry-eyed Midwestern youth, I had not read a single word of Gawker. What's that? Blasphemy, you say? Well, it didn't take long before a disciple of Saint Richard came along, preaching the parables of Bouffant and her patented SlouchHat™. And ever since I have been a devout follower, colloquially known as Claflin, rising through the Kinja ranks with a 316-starred comment on the beloved classic: "Rapist Finds Out from Police That His Victim Has HIV".
I'm currently in the saving Big Bird business as an associate digital representative for PBS corporate sponsorship. Or in layman's terms: Sales. But before selling out to this not-for-profit giant, my background was in publishing and writing.
When I'm not peddling ad banners or consuming fish tacos at Tacombi, I'm bingeing on Netflix - the bath salts of on-demand streaming. From Orange is the New Black to Keeping Up Appearances, my taste knows no bounds like a guest Studio@Gawker writer who willing retrieves lunch from Tacombi for her temporary coworkers. (In case it isn't clear, I KNOW your office is located in close proximity to my treasured taco garage).
I may not have the wit of
Caity, the godliness of Richard, or the sex appeal of one Mr. Hamilton Nolan,
but as an owner of working lungs, a partially stocked fridge (ice cubes count,
right?) and a rent-stabilized East Village apartment inhabited by three asocial
cats, I have what it takes (and the bottom tier of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs)
to be the writer for you!
So on November 19th as we celebrate sesquicentennial of the Gettysburg address and my 26th birthday (Honest Abe and I do not believe in coincidences) please consider me for your rather vaguely described Netflix writing position.