If I didn’t quit messing around and go get a “real adult job,” I worried this would be my life forever. I had no sugar daddy, lived at home in Orlando with my mom, and worked at the Flip Flop Shop at The Florida Mall. Once I graduated, I tried to maintain the same optimism, but now that I couldn’t get away with calling myself a student anymore, it hit me that the future I’d been postponing was here. I suppose I expected one day I’d meet an old rich dude who’d be happy to cover the rent as long as I kept his sexual secrets, or that I’d slip at the grocery store. After all, I was young, raised by scrappy people who survived with half-finished diplomas and shadier immigration papers. I’d spent the years prior dodging questions about the usefulness of my major by shrugging and waving the boring subject away, figuring that was a problem for future me.
In my early twenties, I graduated from college with a degree in creative writing.
