Interlude

There are about five years post-Hipster that are sort of this weird blur that I don’t remember a lot of. I mean, I remember them, but it’s all a bit jumbled and hazy. Now, if you’re thinking that mainlining Jack Daniels is perhaps PERHAPS detrimental to one’s health and well-being, you might be like right or whatever ok. Ugh. Anyway. Those years were a bit messy and I was, in a word, lost. The novelty of being newly released from college and inflicted upon the workforce had worn off RUHL fast. While I spent four years teaching in the DOE, I’ll never really know how I lasted that long. Not only did I feel like all my intellect and creativity were being straight up Dementor’d out of me under the fluorescent lights of my overheated classroom, but like also have you ever heard of 13 year olds. Ugh gawd all 8th graders should for sure be quarantined on an island where some kind of Darwinian social experiment is allowed to take place and only the non-heinous survive. We need to Lord of the Flies that shit, stat. I used to sit in my car every morning before work, staring at the generic tan brick building and listening to The Cure and Belle and Sebastian’s “Get Me Away From Here I’m Dying,” on repeat until the last possible second before the bell rang, willing myself to go in and not burn the building down.