Work Is Meaningless: A Day In The Life Of A Millennial Ad Executive
I never feel more fulfilled than I do when I traffic one of Google’s many ad campaigns. It stimulates me as much as staring at the same spreadsheet for hours on end.
Nothing is as important to me as ensuring we're properly tracking cookies.
How else would we know if we’re resonating with the coveted 18 to 35 age demographic?
Sitting at a desk for 50 hours a week and managing budgets for seven different ad platforms is the stuff dreams are made of.
There is such joy in the air when we finish on target with a low cost-per-acquisition that I’m ready to pop open a bottle of champagne.
The creative you delivered three weeks late — all so you could have a red button instead of a blue one — looks incredible.
Those static JPEGs, showcasing the next batch of artists who've given you the rights to using their likeness, shimmer.
I couldn't imagine any sane person under the age of 35 resisting the urge to click. So, they click in droves.
Never did I imagine this much money could be spent on the banner ads I’ve always ignored.
I haven’t spent three hours every day this week stalking old classmates on Facebook. I spent all that time putting together another concise deck for you to glance over.
I've been scrutinizing the data from our campaign for the story it tells.
Not once did I contemplate moving back to my parents’ house, so I could quit the city for good.
I definitely didn't mourn my diploma in creative writing that gathers dust in their basement.
I have no trouble explaining to friends and family the mechanics of my position.
They grasp the concept of compiling 3,000 unique ad click-trackers to target Internet users based on what they search for online.
I feel no jealousy reading about my friends’ record label in The New York Times. In fact, I’m glad work has consumed so much of my time that I can no longer play in a band.
I have the opportunity to set realistic goals, instead of follow my innate passions.
What do they have? A dedicated fan base? Who would want that?
Certainly not me. I have my 401(k) and stock options.
I look forward to sitting in a teleconference with you, our most coveted client.
My opinions are valued here, even though my Type A manager, who barely worked on your campaign, insists on doing all of the talking.
Can’t wait to hear the two of you debate the merits of in-app advertising on mobile.
I even have something to say when it comes to the relative cost-per-like on Facebook versus cost-per-follower on Twitter.
I can tell you which I think is better for your brand awareness.
I’m fully enriched by our conversation. It doesn’t make me pretend to shoot my brains out as coworkers pass by.
It doesn’t terrify me to the core when Twitter comes into the agency and trains us on how to better mine user data.
Peppering hundreds of thousands of people with diverse targeting parameters, a high daily budget and three variants of a tweet is a powerful feeling.
I love how we force them to watch sponsored videos on their news feed without pressing the play button.
Removing that small amount of control a stranger has over his or her Internet experience just gets me off, professionally speaking.
Winning an award for the year’s best ad campaign from a tech blog no one has ever heard of is something I’ve always dreamed of.
At 6 years old, I was dressing up in business casual and pretending to make some corporate entity millions of dollars.
I couldn’t wait to deliver microscopic mobile commercials to the masses.
The fact I get to work in an industry as intrinsically interesting as this one is a blessing if there ever was one.
Hell, maybe a few decades from now, there’ll be a "Mad Men"-esque period drama about the work we’re doing.
I honestly believe the company’s three founders when they stand up at the quarterly meeting and praise us for our important work.
I’m so proud when they recognize us for how revolutionary we are, and they tell us the technologies we’re developing have helped create a more beautiful and effective Internet.
I’ve never once stood in the back of the room, drinking too many skunked beers and quietly declaring my desire to escape this job. Nope.
When you see me tomorrow, sitting as low as I possibly can at my desk, hungover after company drinks, you’ll see I’m content.
If you can’t tell how happy I am by looking at me, just ask. I’ll be glad to show you.