The hustle doesn’t stop.
I was twenty three years old, fresh from the Midwest to a big city, working in a thankless field where you’re expected to forever pay your dues. Grinding away in the office, running errands, your feet sore as you ride public transportation for an hour so you can pass out in your six story walkup.
I moved to the City with a boyfriend from college. We shared a small apartment with two other roommates. It wasn’t always the most romantic situation, especially since our place was always a crowded pigsty.
Not to mention I was always exhausted from work. I had a boss named Clark who I worked as a personal assistant. He was, to point it kindly, a pampered asshole who claimed to be self-made but came from wealthy stock in toney Connecticut. He was an all-around suburban jerk in his late 30s who liked to pretend he was tougher than he actually was; that he had the kind of grit and preserverance that the City instills in people, even though he spent most of his time here ensconsed in unbelievable privilege.