I may have to deal with the constant burn of acid reflux, but when you’re obsessed with uncovering the tastiest restaurants, the Prilosec pills are worth it. Food is what keeps me going at my hellish data entry job in Midtown Manhattan, where I’ve been working full-time for about a year. Once the boss skirts into his office (or scurries, more accurately; he’s rather rodent-like) and my monitor is no longer in his field of vision, I begin scouring my favorite food blogs and salivating over their gratuitous photos of cheeseburgers, fried chicken, and rhubarb pie. I started writing my first food blog in college so that eating could become something more than a hobby. (Also, “I write a food blog” is apparently a much more socially acceptable response than “I eat” to the dreaded “so what do you do for fun?” question.) Without shmancy connections or a ton of professional experience (I graduated from NYU a year ago), it’s nearly impossible to land the coveted food writing position. So here I am, living in Brooklyn, hoping an employer will someday recognize my writing so that I can break into the industry before my acid reflux kills me (or my current boss, should he come across this irreverent little nugget).