I can’t even go in public without getting recognized anymore (I make awkward eye contact with randos on my way to class).

I write for one of the top newspapers (a student-run publication in Walla Walla, Washington, on the back page), with one of the largest audiences in the country (five views per article, three from my mom). 

I pull a giant hoodie over my head and some thick sunglasses to hide my face (it’s 20 degrees and overcast). 

I head to the cafe and order my usual. (Chocolate milk, sub almond milk.) I glance over at a group of girls giggling at something on their phones. 

They’re obviously reading my new article (They are not). They can’t even contain themselves (They chuckled once). Humor is a powerful thing. 

“Order for Olivia.”

I grab my coffee and rush out the door in a tizzy. Don’t they know not to say my name out loud? That was close (It was not). I made it out just in time before someone called paparazzi, and I was flooded with autograph requests (I’ve been practicing for when someone actually asks me).  

Everyone knows my work (My closest friends and my mother). Every week they scramble to get their hands on their very own copy.   

“I read your article,” they say.

“It was funny,” they say.

Of course it was. They don’t pay me the big bucks (32 dollars) for nothing. 

Every day I sacrifice my privacy and my freedom, but it’s a rewarding career (two hours per week, one like).