Writing is my boyfriend

So here's the thing: I am pretty much a hoot, and sometimes even a holler. Not only am I wildly entertaining--yes, this is going somewhere--but I am riveting with my words. And... you guessed it, a wildly entertaining hoot and holler in my writing as well. Yeah, I said it.
I am a writer, dammit!
I paid upwards of a new Lexus for my collegiate education, only to now be sinking in a vat of quicksand-like debt from said college institution and am I getting paid to be Carrie Bradshaw for all that hassle? For sitting in my room in the the third grade penning love stories and using my imagination instead of rotting my brain with television? For dramatically proclaiming in the fourth grade that one day I would be a novelist, knowing even then that there was a strong possibility of living in a box while trying to accomplish this feat?
Well this blog makes about seven cents every three weeks (and that's rounding up) and I haven't actually gotten a fat check in the mail to date... so the answer is no. I am not getting paid for my awesome writing ability. And quite frankly, it's a smidge irksome. Okay, to be more accurate, I'd say the Grand Canyon is about the right size in comparison to my level of annoyance... so, not really a smidge so much as freaking enormously irked.
I am putting my foot down, America. And I'll throw Europe in there too for good measure because I'd gladly take a writing job overseas. Someone in the writing/publishing/editing/novelist realm had better hire me! And soon.
I know there are millions of other quality writers trying to get published and paid too, but here's the thing:
I have had a love affair with words since I left the comfort and complacency of my mother's womb. I am certain before I can even recall I was transfixed with taking some aspect of my life and weaving it into a tale so engrossing that teachers wanted to pat me on the head with admiration while boys ran for the hills in fear of my vocabulary.
In fact my adoration for writing is so strong, I would say it is my relationship. And my strongest one to date. I spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing over it, wondering why I don't get the recognition I so richly deserve for all the work and love I put in, while still managing to give all of myself even when I'm tired or not in the mood.
I don't even want a boyfriend to pour all this love and passion into. I want a writing job!
So guess what piss-poor economy, flailing newspapers, pretentious publishing houses, I am sick of the charade. You may act all aloof and oh "can't help you, there," but no, I am over it. You will get a grip and give me a job, because this hard-to-get game is so last week.

Sincerely yours,

Unpaid Novelist Extraordinaire
Cassandra Lee Sturos