Óscar Calderón, it turns out, is a money pit.

No, that's not the right word. Whatever you call it when someone is worth a lot of money–a cash cow! That's it.

I mean, he was already worth a lot of money to him, but this morning it seems he's worth a lot of money to me. My blog post is already trending on social media and, despite the correction I made when I discovered the woman was his cousin, I seem to be the top source for all things Real Barcelona.

Posts that are six years old have gained tens of thousands of reads this morning. I've made at least thirteen dollars off ads overnight. And my inbox is lit up with replies, comments, and...

"Holy Shit!" I shout, bolting up in bed.

"Can you be a lil quieter?" Carla mumbles from the floor. "I think there's a whole circus practicing line dancing in my head."

"Sorry," I whisper to my temporary roommate. My own head felt very similar until I saw the words "Sponsorship Request" in the header of that email from Xabal Athletic Wear.

If I'd known breaking my morals would get me this kind of opportunity, I'd have caved years ago.

I tiptoe out of the room to get some toast, typing out a reply to Xabal as I do. They haven't given me much to go on, so my reply is mostly not asking the hundred questions racing through my head and trying to appear professional.

The stairs slip out from under me and I spend the last three steps on my butt instead of my feet but even then I'm not mad.

Nothing can ruin my perfect day.

Not the hangover I'm nursing. Not the bruise surely growing under my pyjamas. And definitely not the fact that I burned my first three pieces of toast.

I cannot contain my bouncing, buttering a piece of toast as I watch the constant flow of messages, comments, likes, and shares flowing through my inbox. But the sponsorship opportunities stare up at me like my saving grace. Could this be how I save my financial situation?

"Hey Carla," I call upstairs. "Do you have champagne? We should have champagne."

"Why?" she calls back.

Shit. Shit shit shit. She doesn't know I write that blog. Okay. Think quickly. "I think drinking should make me forget my hangover."

"Then why do you need champagne? Grab a beer or a shot of vodka or something."

"Right, uh. Yeah. Thanks."

My phone, still buzzing constantly with notifications, somehow draws my attention with a new message from Real Barcelona. Some guy named Domingo is thanking me for my accurate reporting and offering me tickets to an exhibition game later in the year. Too bad I don't have enough money to feed a caterpillar, not to mention get all the way to Spain.

I leave that one alone. I'm not going to say no until I have to. For now, I'm going to pretend I'll get to see my favourite fútbol team live. And maybe I will. Maybe these sponsorship deals will be enough to cobble together a ticket.

Once I figure out that pesky finances problem.

I need a job. But instead I have a viral blog post and a sponsorship deal I can't make heads or tails of. I'll need a lawyer. Who I cannot pay.

Maybe I do need that alcohol.

I flip over to my personal email, muting my phone notifications so I can focus. Seven rejections. One spam email offering to enlarge a piece of anatomy I don't possess. And three new posts from blogs I follow, all covering the Óscar Calderón situation. I flag those for follow up — I like to keep an eye on the competition.

The seven rejections mark the end of my exhaustive search for a job. Well, technically there are still three applications outstanding. But they are the kind where you don't hear back within a week, you didn't get it.

So it's not looking great.

"Did you find anything?" Carla asks. "Like a truck load of pain medication?"

When she appears at the top of the stairs, she squints in the bright sunlight. "Who put that window there?"

"Your designer, I think," I respond, crossing off my unsuccessful job searches from my list. It's confirmed. Absolutely zero opportunities left. "Ugh."

I groan without thinking, but Carla squints at me. "What's wrong with you?"

"I've run out of decent job opportunities. I'm going to have to apply at Pizza Bird or something." I drop my head into my lap and my phone bounces off the couch and onto the plush white carpet at my feet.

"Or you could apply for that Mercurio Travel Magazine opening Bianca sent you yesterday. It was so perfect for you."

"Yes, because my life is so beautifully put together right now. It's definitely the perfect time to take my one and only shot at the only job I've wanted since I could spell the word 'travel'."

"It's no worse a time than any other." She closes her eyes and leans against the wall. "What do you have to lose by applying?"

"Maybe messing up the only job I've ever really wanted?" I answer as though the question is obvious. "I need more experience first and probably a degree. At the very least a strong portfolio."

"You would have one of those if you'd share what you're always writing on that little phone of yours," Carla groans. "I need a burrito."

"How about bacon?" I ask, stomach churning at the idea. "Or maybe we can order in."

"Yes. Let's do that. Good idea." And then she disappears around the corner, trying to pick a piece of gum out of her hair. "I'm never getting drunk again," she mutters mostly to herself.

Laughing at her brings back the pounding in my head. But I need to clear the rest of these emails and sort them into folders. The thing about job searches that go on forever is it's really hard to remember everywhere that has rejected you.

It's great.

Oh no. Why is there a personal email from the senior editor at Mercurio in my inbox?

Sure, I'd seen the job advertisement for a writer—which NEVER happens—and sure I was lusting after this job like I do after sweets. But I didn't apply.

Except evidently I did.

A wave of dread washes through me. I didn't write the application. I got the email from Bianca, went to Carla's fashion show, pretended to understand what the rich people were talking about, and saved the advertisement somewhere safe until I could work up the nerve to apply.

Which was probably going to be never.

And then I spent the whole evening researching and writing my blog post about Óscar Calderón.

So who sent the application in? And more importantly what does it say?

A small part of me knows I wrote the application. The sinking nausea in the pit of my stomach says I know exactly who wrote the application. And she's me with the addition of about twelve fortifying shots of tequila.

Shouting on a table with Carla briefly comes back to me. We were playing truth or dare and I had no more clothes to strip so I had to take the dare and... Oh no.

My toast lays abandoned on the counter, the nausea from last night multiplying tenfold with the bile rising up at the thought of what I may have sent the editor of Mercurio. I could have torched any chance I have.

And sure, this blog is sort of blowing up, but that doesn't mean my dream to work as a travel journalist just disappears.

I open the app on my phone that helps me steady my breathing and colour a picture as the music guides my breathing. And when the little clock ticks down to zero, the app closes and I'm faced once again with my email inbox.

One big breath more and then I press the message titled 'RE: APPLICATION Reference: DW84920U4'. Could they have a more obnoxious reference code if they tried?

My phone laughs at me as the internet suddenly stops working and I'm met with a white screen and a small grey circle indicating the email is loading.

The email is not loading.

Refreshing doesn't work.

Backing out and reopening the app doesn't work.

Dropping the phone on the floor, surprisingly, doesn't work.

What does work is Carla coming down the stairs and resetting the internet.

Why didn't I think of that?

I don't even have time to thank Carla before the email opens.

Dear Ms. Martinez,

Thank you for your application for the position of Travel Columnist with Mercurio Travel Inc. We were impressed with your entertaining application, your portfolio of writing samples, and your impressive attention to detail. Your writing has potential and shows wit and authenticity. We would be honoured to meet you for a follow up interview at a time that is convenient for you. Please reach out to my assistant, Amanda, to set something up.

There's some contact details and a signature, but I don't really see it, because my eyes are going glossy and there's a forest sprouting to life in front of my eyes. I blink away the floaters and shake my head, scrolling down to see the complete application I sent in.

Pretty basic stuff fills the first two pages. Personal details, academic and work history, writing samples, and...

Oh no.

I look closer at the email, zooming in until I can read the title clearly so I can be sure.

I sent them the article I wrote about Óscar Calderón.

So much for an anonymous fan blog.

No, it's okay. She's a professional. I'm sure she'll keep a lid on my identity if I just let her know it's meant to be anonymous. This is nothing to freak out about.

The interview, on the other hand, is.

"Carla!" I call, only to be met with the glaring face of my best friend as she rounds the corner, toothbrush hanging halfway out of her mouth.

"Sorry. I just... I applied for a job at Mercurio and—"

She whips the toothbrush out of her mouth, toothpaste flying across the floor as she does. "You did? I can't believe you took my advice." The last word is slurred as she puts the toothbrush back in her mouth. It sounds like advishe.

"I didn't do it on purpose!" I shout.

Her eyes go from excited, to angry, to confused, all between blinks. "How can you accidentally apply for a job?"

"I don't know. Don't really remember anything past tequila shot number five. Do you?"

She groans, racing to the sink to spit out her toothpaste. "Ugh, no."

"Well, me neither. But apparently drunk me lacks forethought and temperance and decided to throw caution to the wind and maybe burn the only job bridge she's ever wanted."

"You've been keeping a list of resume items for that job since before I met you," Carla says when she returns. "I'm sure you had plenty to send them."

"But how do I know I'm ready?" I whine. "Maybe I don't have what it takes and they're going to not hire me and I'm going to burn the bridge and I'm never going to work there ever."

She doesn't say anything, a small smile crossing her face.

"Don't say it."

"I don't have to. You know what you'd say to me right now. 'Carla, that's catastrophizing. You have no way of knowing everything bad is going to happen and even the worst possible thing is not the end of the world or your life. You need to take a step back and assess the situation.'"

"That is what I'd say, if I were you." I huff out more air than I have left, deflating like a sad balloon three days after a kid's birthday party as I sink down onto the couch.

"See? You got this." She joins me on the couch and gently fist bumps me after deciding a high five is about ten times louder than our headaches can handle.

We sit in silence, my eyes at least are closed against the harsh sunlight streaming through her living room window.

"I've failed to land seventy-three jobs, Carla," I remind her. "Even the doggy-poop job was apparently above my skillset. I'm running out of options and none of them are good. I just—"

"Can't do interviews," she finishes for me. "I know. I thought you'd managed to get that under control."

"I thought I had, too, but getting fired from Bovaltech has me all frazzled. I thought I had everything set up there. I was in line for the promotion. I was going to make my life there and I was finally on track and then the rug was pulled out from under me."

"I told you I'd get you a job as our web designer," Carla reasons. "No interview required."

"And I told you I can't accept that," I remind her. "I'm not going to get my job just because my best friend owns the company. I'm going to earn it."

"Just like everyone else, right?" I don't have to open my eyes to know she's raised one of her eyebrows so high it's met her bright blonde hairline.

"I know you think everyone gets things by who they know, and maybe you're right, but I have to figure out how to do this on my own. I can't be waiting for someone to come along and save me all the time. My mom did that and..." I can't finish the sentence.

"I know," Carla smiles and pats my arm. "I know. And you are right. You are amazing and you don't need my help to land the most amazing job ever. You're going to be great."

Carla takes off up the stairs, shoving aside a pile of half-made bikini tops as she does. Suddenly, my fall this morning makes a lot more sense.

The water kicks on as Carla starts the upstairs shower and I'm left alone on the couch with only my headache and my bright white email as company.

I need this job.

But I can't do an interview.

So I need to figure out a way to make them give me the job without doing a formal interview.

I can totally figure that out. I've done harder things before.

I think.

Good thing I have less than twelve hours until I fly off to Honduras for Bianca's wedding. And I haven't packed. And I'm not even at my house.

It's going to be fine.