BY A…WOMAN? | BUSINESS REPORTER

I am tired of being underestimated as a reporter. And more so, I’m tired of being broke—eating macaroni and cheese without truffle oil, not having a Bluetooth ear-piece and not eating açaí bowls.

I’ve decided to set out on a quest to be a real business journalist. Business is fun, it’s cool, it’s numbers and it’s money. 

My first stop was Chad Hard, the CEO of a totally legal prediction market. “You gotta stay hard to be hard, invest in yourself, invest in Viagra,” he told me. 

Hard let me into his business secrets. In his time at Brock University, he had exhausted all his avenues—lying about his roster, vaping, snorting cocaine and collecting Patagonia vests.

I realized how behind I was. I didn’t have contact with white men named Henry, John, Bryson or Mitchell. I didn’t have any Patagonia vests nor did I have a trust fund. 

“Who cares about this resume shit—you need to ask your father for cash and invest that into hard shit, you know what I mean,” he said. 

I realized then and there, all my certifications and courses meant nothing. Hard drew me to the light like Jesus but less brown and with more Dior Sauvage. 

My years of following the upward line and the downward line were utterly useless if I didn’t possess a penis…

Business analyst Brad Giuliani refused to speak to me at first. He said having pronouns in my email signature was “too gay a move.” Eventually, he agreed to 30 minutes with me but shortened it to 15 after finding out I was taller than him. “You don’t play golf, you don’t play fantasy football. What the fuck kind of business journalist are you,” he told me. 

Giuliani had a point. How was I supposed to interview finance bros if I wasn’t allowed access to their turf? After explaining to me how one plus one is actually 11, Giuliani stepped aside for his daily wife-cheating break.