“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.” – A Tale of Two Cities
I’ll never forget the summer of 2010. Like a good parent does to every child afraid of the water, my mother had finally pushed me out of her rent free house and into a rather shallow public pool. Yet still I was barely floating my $600 rent despite my three part-time jobs, my least favorite of them driving a van around town to pick up kids from six different schools and deliver them to afterschool care. At the top of her lungs, Jessica’s crackly 8-year-old voice screeched the lyrics drowning out Beyonce.
“Sit down and put your seat belt back on,” I yelled. “This isn’t American Idol, sit down!”. Jessica was that precocious only child who probably spent too much time watching grown women be grown. What did she know about heartbreak anyway? What did she know about laying on your hardwood floor of your studio choking on your own breath, or dry heave vomiting, or sleeping excessively because it’s the only place where you can alter reality? What did she know about heartbreak so incredibly painful you weren’t sure if you weren’t actually physically dying?