The Dirty Truth

“Hell if I know.”

I run my palm over the smooth silver case of my trusty computer, the one that’s churned out dozens upon dozens of Dirty Truths over the last several years. Landing my position at Made Man at twenty-five was a dream come true. I didn’t know a soul. I didn’t intern there. I had zero connections. I simply submitted my work and got lucky, and the rest was history. Naive, bright eyed, and bursting with potential, I subsisted off the adrenaline rush of rubbing elbows with magazine elites and wearing my workaholism like a badge of honor.

During those earliest years, the world was my oyster, and I was certain a stint at Made Man was going to catapult me to print-media greatness. Only it turns out print media is dying out faster than anyone ever anticipated. The jobs are fewer and further between, and the competition is stiffer than ever. To have a job in this industry in this day and age is akin to possessing a coveted Willy Wonka golden ticket.

I’d be a fool to walk away from my life’s work—but it’s the strangest thing . . . because it’s all I’ve been able to think about lately.

The rush is gone.

The fulfillment and satisfaction are nonexistent.

I used to admire my sisters for knowing that a life revolving around family, marriage, and kids was enough to fulfill them, to give them a sense of purpose in this world. And I was so sure that I knew my path was going to be different. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that moving to a big city and chasing some pie-in-the-sky career would flood me with a sense of accomplishment unlike any other. And it did. For a while.

But my cup no longer runneth over.

It’s empty. Hollow. Void—not unlike the place I visited during my fleeting encounter with death.

“Maybe it’s time to start considering your options,” Indie muses.

“What are you talking about?”

She flicks her chocolate wrapper at me. “That’s the message I got, but I’m thinking maybe it was intended for you. I want a do-over.”

Indie pops the white square into her mouth before helping herself to a second piece from my dwindling stash.

“‘Draw yourself a bubble bath.’” Indie spouts off her new quote. “Eh. Did you know white chocolate isn’t actually chocolate? It’s just sugar and cocoa butter and vanilla masquerading as some extravagant version of the real thing. But no one cares. They see the word chocolate, and because they want to believe it’s chocolate, it is chocolate.”

“I did know that,” I say. “Isn’t it crazy how we’re constantly being lied to and we’re all just . . . okay with it? We don’t bat an eye. It’s such a normalized part of our lives that it makes the truth jarring. Like social media filters. Everyone uses them, and everyone knows that’s not really what someone looks like, but we all just accept it anyway.”

“Yeah. It’s annoying. But what can you do?” She pops the second faux chocolate into her mouth and crumples the bubble bath wrapper.

“Once you take your blinders off, it’s exhausting having to constantly sift through what’s real and what isn’t,” I continue. “I was reading some of my older articles earlier tonight, and I was just . . . dying inside with every word. Which I know is maybe an insensitive way to put it given the fact that I recently died, but that’s how it felt. I wasn’t proud of my work—I was disgusted by it.”

“Your work is not disgusting, Elle. Promise. You’re just stressed right now because of that stupid deadline, so you’re overthinking.”

If it were two months ago, I’d agree with her.

“They’re cringey,” I say. “And they’re full of lies. And I don’t want to write them anymore.”

The words are sharp on my tongue, startling us both into a bout of silence.

“Well, I don’t think they’re cringey,” Indie volunteers after a brief delay. “I think they’re humorous, and it feels like I’m reading a letter from a friend. They’re conversational. And poignant.”

“I appreciate that. I do. But my column is literally called The Dirty Truth, and it’s nothing but bullshit.” I reach for another chocolate, running my fingers along the creased midnight-blue tinfoil.

“It makes people feel good. Who cares if it’s BS?”

I sniff a laugh. “Apparently I care.”

“That never bothered you before.”

I turn to her. “Exactly. That’s my point. I never cared before. And now that I do, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re just doing your job. If they weren’t paying you to write this column, it’d be someone else. Do you think every fashion designer loves what they design? Do you think every schoolteacher wants to teach every single grade they’re certified to teach? And take me for instance: Do I love every project that lands in my lap? No. At the end of the day, sometimes a job is just a job. And my bills aren’t going to pay themselves.”