Jobs.  It’s all about the jobs.  Gotta have one.

I really loved my first year at Seattle Pacific University, and the idea of going home and getting a job was offensive—not like the racist relative with whom you spend your holidays, but like the black beans you left in the fridge for too long, which now rot.  Laziness is really what it was.  My inner child sat on his chair in the corner screaming when he realized his summer would need to have some structure and—horror of horrors—productivity.

Reason won out, as it sometimes does.  But what should I do?  Barrista?  Hmmm!  Teach violin?  Yes, but that isn’t full time.  Physical labor?  Nobody would pay me for that.  Write a bunch and make a living off of submissions to literary journals?

Not easy, as it turns out.

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