Five years later, I’m 40 and ready for a leap: an MFA in Creative Writing. Will my mental health will be up to the stress?
I quit my best job ever. Then, with its notoriously poor timing, Love chooses me in the form of a velvet-skinned woman. Delving deeper into consensual nonmonogamy a few months into a Masters? Why the hell not?
Three months away from my thesis deadline and I’m doing hockey drills to blow off stress. Blue line, red line, blue line red line blue …aaaand POP! My ankle breaks, audibly. I crumble to the ice from the pain, sobbing to my partner, “How am I going to finish!?”
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