I know you’ve started thinking about it: What are you going to do this summer?

Last summer was lame. You thought it would be cool to see if you could eat an entire box of Otter Pops in one day and then beat Halo IN JAPANESE (easier than it sounds, actually), but after like three days it turned out to be mind-numbingly dull.

Plus, you ran out of money really really fast and your parents would only pay for boring stuff like trips to the dentist and four-cheese Hot Pockets. So this summer has to be different.

And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you’re going to get a summer job.

Well, you’re wrong.

Don’t get defensive. I get the appeal of the summer job. Oh, how charming it would be to live the blue-collar lifestyle! What humble delight to use one’s BODY rather than one’s exhausted mind! The grit of retail or food handling or custodial labor appeals to you. You’re up for it.

You’re wrong.

Trust me: I have attempted all of these. Pizza parlor, paper route, Target soft lines, you name it. I also dated someone who was a cherry-picker (funny story: One time he was picking cherries and HE LOST HIS LEFT LEG. Just kidding. MAYBE.) Every menial labor summer job sucks. It’s a fact.

And to prove this to you, I am printing a few noteworthy paragraphs from my diary the summer I thought it would be “noble” and “interesting” to deliver Oregonians. Enjoy.

Dear Diary,
My first day of work was an experience.

NOTE: This sentence is unfinished. It should say, “My first day of work was an experience… akin to rubbing cyanide on one’s genitals.”

Work began at 2 a.m. and ended at 5 a.m. There is nothing good that happens between these hours. Not a single thing. The only good thing that happens between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. is that normal people get sleep and this keeps them alive.

I’m pretty sure my boss is a racist.

NOTE: This guy was like 19 but he looked 37 because he literally NEVER SLEPT. He liked to make comments to me in front of the fluent-in-English Latino worker such as, “Pedro can’t talk worth shit but them aliens is good at throwing.” You think I’m overdoing it for dramatic emphasis. I’m not.

My boss let me into his very smoky car to show me the route. He could throw the papers pretty well, but I was not very good at it.

NOTE: My boss had sadly missed his calling as a pitcher for the New York Yankees (and I’m pretty sure even Jim Abbott couldn’t have hurled floppy newspapers up entire flights of stairs out of a tiny cracked window of a Geo Prizm WHILE DRIVING the way this guy could). So it was pretty embarrassing when I hit various hanging plants, climbing roses, garage doors, windows and a cat.

By the time it was 4 a.m., I was exhausted, sore and tense.

NOTE: And vaguely suicidal.

At 9 a.m. I woke up and told my mom about my experience, and she suggested I quit. She doesn’t understand that parents are supposed to be SUPPORTIVE. They are supposed to make you pancakes and tell you the day will be better tomorrow.

NOTE: Obviously, this is one of those situations where you’re SO SURE in the moment that your parents are SO WRONG and then in like four days you realize they were SO PAINFULLY RIGHT, but you don’t want to admit it so you insistently deny the truth until you’ve either killed yourself or killed someone you care about or had a sex change operation or something equally dire. Moral: Parents are old for a reason: So they can wisely advise you not to do stupid shit. Listen to them.

There are some perks, I guess. For one thing, Z100 plays really good music at 3:30 in the morning, including but not limited to Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway,” Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” and R. Kelly’s “Remix to Ignition.” Also, this job pays a lot because no one wants to do it. Also, there are these two guys named Ron who I really liked.

NOTE: Lots to say here. First of all, that first perk really is pretty spectacular. Not only does Z100 play great music, but ALL RADIO STATIONS play great music at 3:30 in the morning. I guess that’s because no one’s listening and they just kind of play out their archives and never do any commercials, but whatever the reason, it’s pretty great. No wonder insomniacs exist.

Second, I know I say that this job “pays a lot.” That’s actually a lie. My boss made it SOUND like the job paid a lot by doing complicated math in front of me (multiplication IS complicated if someone does it really, really fast), but the definition of “a lot” is 8 cents a paper. And even though I delivered upwards of 300 papers a night, there was no way I would ever be good enough at it that I would earn minimum wage.

Finally (and crucially), The Rons (I started calling these two guys named Ron: which, by the way, is NOT that common a name: The Rons within a day of starting my route) were hysterical. They were really a sitcom waiting to be written. They talked like a weirder, late-night parody of “Who’s On Third.” Actual Ron-on-Ron dialogue:

RON: Hey Ron.
RON: Hey Ron.
RON: Can you run these to Edward, Ron?
RON: Do you really want me to run, Ron?
RON: Yeah. Then I want you to fuck Edward in the ass.
RON: Raunchy, Ron.

And so on and so forth. And they did this all with a straight face, as if it was the commonest thing in the world. I wish I had tried to stay pen-pals with The Rons. Alas.

Anyway. The point is that when the “perks” of your job are good radio songs and a pair of guys named Ron, the “Abort” button should go off in your brain immediately.

Anyway, I think things will get better. The first day is always the hardest, though, right? I’m soooo tired,

I’m going to take a nap.

Love,
Sophie

NOTE: Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Highlights of subsequent paper-delivery nights: Twisting my ankle on someone’s steps after my flashlight burned out, watching my car roll down the hill and into a telephone pole, accidentally smashing at like 35-miles-per-hour into someone’s parked Honda Civic, wetting myself in the rain after two hours of holding it for too long (coffee is a double-edged sword in this profession), and seeing some exhibitionist’s penis as he stood in all his naked glory in front of his bay window at 4 a.m. staring at me.
What I’m trying to say is that no summer job will ever be worth it. Apply for that internship you always wanted, or get some volunteer stint at a summer camp. But skip the “classic” summer job. It’s just not worth it.