I originally joined The Sun because I wanted to be like Rory Gilmore. My grades weren’t good enough to get into Yale and I didn’t really think I wanted to be a journalist, but I loved the idea of gracefully racing around the newsroom, shouting commands as we struggled to meet a deadline, so I took what I could get and signed up to be a news writer. Fast forward six months, and I am slumped in front of an oversized iMac, running on two hours of sleep, my hair unwashed and unbrushed, eating pizza for dinner for the fourth time that week, occasionally trading short, awkward exchanges with the other editors, silently combing through the first 19 years of my life to try and pinpoint the horrible mistake that had led me to this moment. The thing is, being a journalist, at least in my limited experience, is 2 percent fast-paced laps around the newsroom and 98 percent staring at a computer screen, blinking furiously to try and keep your eyes from going dry. When you do your job correctly, no one is standing by to congratulate you.