Objectively, it’s not exactly a career I’m going for. I’m not trying to build up my resumé. When you say career, I think of something with an end. Golf pants, a 401k. Bingo. My job will not be toiled through on the daily until I can financially afford to stop showing up. My job will also be who I am. And I never intend to retire. I am trying to become a writer. My gravestone ought to bear just that one word. From it, any visitors ought to glean: he wrote words til he died. The end. I am filling out my application for the Cormac McCarthy School of Hard Knocks. After graduate school, I will write books. Money will come or it won’t, but the writing will continue. I picked English not as a major but a medium. These are the words I will use. My brain is full of something and I will let it out in small drips of English words. Hard as I squeeze I keep finding new bits of passion and mirth, disquiet, temperance, bravery and spittle, violence and grace, seething hatred and blank-faced shame. I am looking for hope. It is in there somewhere.

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