Dear Mrs. C...

Somehow or another, against all odds, I’m a producer. At least against those mental blocks my 12th grade English teacher engrained into my frontal lobe by making me way less than anything close to even an “assistant editor” of the creative arts magazine, I’m a full-fledged, news-aggregating, interview-doing, card carrying, internal-emailing, pen and paper and posts and links - Producer. Journalist. Writer.

And they pay me.

To do what I love to do.

Like write about Twilight and puppies.

Today was what I would consider my first full day of working for al.com. (if you don’t click that, I’ll disown you) (then come back) (then click al.com/Montgomery or i’ll disown you TWICE) (/end message)

Y’all. I m in love.

With a website.

Our babies? Well. They look a lot like this website (‘hush’), so…  whatever. But the point here is this - If ever someone tells you “no”, whenever you can see that they think less of you than they should (than anyone should) do both of you a favor - theoretically kick their ass.

Then, write a blog post about it. And go to bed one happy freaking camper. With incomplete sentences. And ones that start with interjections. With a paycheck. As a writer.