Michael Vallebuona


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Diary of an Intern: Constant tunes, weird coworkers speed the day away

Drinking heavily seemed like an excellent idea last night. Well, to be fair, drinking heavily almost always seems like an excellent idea. But as I cower in my cubicle under the agonizing (and unflattering) flurescent lights, I'm starting to think that "Consume alcohol" should have been struck from last night's itinerary. I did not have time to shower this morning. My hair looks dull. My skin is oily. I have an excruciating headache. And I unknowingly put on my boxers inside-out. Oh! And I'm wearing linen pants! And it's, like, 14 degrees! This is what happens when you wake up late and are unable to make it to the dry cleaners to fetch your clean clothes.

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Diary of an Intern: Sleep late, party late, get to work late

I have my internship again tomorrow, which I am dreading. Not because I hate my internship, but because I am a lazy bum who can't stand the thought of waking up before the crack of lunchtime. I should probably go to bed earlier, but whenever I hit the pillow, I know I'm destined to have more insane Nyquil-fueled nightmares about Anna Nicole Smith and estranged members of my family.

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Diary of an Intern: Power-hour shopping

Anyway, I suppose the one thing better than shopping during your lunch break would to not be confined by a lunch break whatsoever. Unfortunately, as struggling interns (there's a certain romantic ring to that, like "struggling artist" or "model/waitress"), we don't have much of a choice.

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Diary of an Intern: Don't stop drinking about tomorrow

If there has ever been a day to get smashed at work, then Wednesday was the day. I know plenty of interns who sat at their desks, staring blankly at CNN.com and resisting the urge to collapse on their keyboards in blubbering heaps. Wouldn't that have been a perfect time to co-opt a temporary bout of alcoholism? I'm telling you: All the smart interns were drinking straight-up vodka from a Nalgene bottle while making flight reservations to Toronto on Priceline.com.

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Log Cabin Republicans director fights for gay rights

There is a reason why Christopher Barron, political director of the Log Cabin Republicans, failed to receive the distinction of "Most Friendly" in high school... The award went to someone else, and when asked by a friend for his opinion of that student, Barron replied pithily: "I hate him." Somehow, Barron also failed to receive the "Most Opinionated" award.

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Diary of an Intern: Ashlee, don't blame the band

Could you imagine if Ashlee Simpson was an intern in your office? I envision her at a neighboring cubicle, her rat's nest of a hairdo pooling on the floor beside her dirty Chuck Taylors. The phone would ring, and raising the handset to her bejeweled ear, she'd croak: "Hi, this is, like, Ashlee speaking!" I'd glare at her in hatred, only to be lost in the beak-like nose and butt-like chin that dominate her pinched, mannish face.

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Diary of an Intern: Putting your best face forward

The only thing worse than an intern who is smarter than you is an intern who is hotter than you. Unless you work at the American Foundation for the Blind, there is no way to deny this unfortunate but universal fact. Attractive interns are more likely to receive larger wages, faster promotions and frequent opportunities to file potentially lucrative sexual harassment suits. And rightfully so. After all, interns are a lot like steaks; not only must they be well-prepared, but they must be hot.

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Diary of an Intern: Pee to procrastinate

If there is one way to procrastinate at your internship, it's by taking suspiciously frequent and curiously long trips to the bathroom. These toilet-bound sojourns allow you precious time - 15 minutes, at the very least - to run the faucet, inspect your reflection and otherwise not do work.

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Diary of an Intern: Tired as hell, not going to take it anymore

Waiting tables, like interning, is pretty demeaning - almost as demeaning as prostitution. But street whores get $20 for just seven minutes of work. What do I get after a six-hour lunch shift? Not nearly enough. This is due, in part, to the neighborhood trophy wives who, wary of overspending their weekly allowances, never tip a respectful 20 percent.

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