Most days, I hate my job.

But it’s complicated, see, because I get to work with teenagers and I love that. Helping them through life’s challenges, listening to their stories, encouraging them to be the best version of themselves? Yes. I’m in. I love it. I’m good at it.

Yet, they actually pay me to teach these teenagers lessons about grammar and writing and literature they don’t want to read (heck, I don’t even want to read most of the required reading). I’m in my ninth year of education (though yes I’ve worked at a lot of schools), but I’m still not comfortable teaching them the things they don’t give a f- about. Right now, we’re writing short stories. I love short stories. I’ve pulled from my own personal collection of short stories. Raymond Carver, David Sedaris, Jo Ann Beard. A few kids seem to care. The majority? Not.

So it’s a Thursday and here I am in my classroom again after being here until nearly 8 last night for parent-teacher conferences.

A student made me a pumpkin cookie this morning, though, and left it on my desk and that is something huge in this strange world.