I was 11 years old when I was given the honor of a neon vest and a flag and was sent out to an intersection two blocks from my elementary.

 

On a Monday, I was handed an uncapped marker by a man in blue and was told to sign my name on a banner. The man talked a lot about high-risk choices and learning how to say no to our peers.

 

They called it Career Cruising as we took a test in the computer lab that was supposed to tell me what I was tailored for. The computer printed out the expected wages below each forecast. Mine told me I could be an Actor. I hid it in my locker.

 

When grades started to count toward my future, every followed passion had a consequence, so I was told. Reason was supposed to trump creativity.

 

I got my first college flyer in the mail. Dad hung it with pride on the fridge as a constant reminder.

 

I called the suicide hotline out of curiosity.

 

A copy of Vogue, three pencil skirts, and two pairs of high heels were purchased, and I practiced walking when I should have been sleeping.

 

I ran in a school election and won.

 

Acted in three school plays to become well-rounded.

 

I didn’t have time to make friends.

 

A class advisor told me that Art was only an elective and not pertinent for graduation. “Get that Spanish requirement out of the way.”

 

I spoke in a lot of assemblies.

 

I spent too much time making lists and tables.

 

I stole a Chapstick at a 7-11 for the hell of it.

 

I ran in another election and lost.

 

I was accepted to every University I applied to.

 

I started smoking Marlboro Reds.

 

There was a boy whose fingers would jump from my protruding ribcage to his own soft belly. He would pinch hard, wishing the excess skin would pull off like dough.

 

I spent a lot of time crying in the parked car that my parents bought for me.

 

I asked my mom about dermatologists.

 

Took a job selling overpriced clothing in a department store. Learned how to drape cotton and polyester over every body type. Learned how to stroke the egos of rich women.

 

My dad asked me forty-seven times about what I wanted to study when I went away to school in the fall.

 

I got two poems published anonymously in our town’s local journal. One was about self-destruction. One was about self-imposed oppression.

 

I went to the bank to set up a savings account and got talked into opening up a credit card. It was time to start building credit.

 

I packed my junk into boxes, and my dad drove the pickup across the floating bridge to my dorm room.

 

I bought a fabricated ideal in a pair of destroyed denim jeans. I think I spent seventy dollars.

 

I took Econ 200 and hated my life.

 

Used my student loans to have two therapists access my sanity.

 

I fell in love with microwavable chili and fucked around with too many boys.

 

I contemplated dropping out of school.

 

Laura dragged me to a lot of art showings, and I pretended to understand her statement about suicide in her plastic sculptures.

 

After drinking Monarch out of its plastic bottle and belting out sea shanties on a stolen canoe on Lake Washington, I watched as Blake stood up and boldly declared that his child would be the product of creative freedom and then promptly fell into the water. I fell in love with Blake that night.