So I say, be happy, though the instinct in me doesn’t capture what I mean. I’d like to think I’d refuse an apology that stumbles drunk out of the bar, that I’d behead my enemies before sharing with them any of the light by which I read. The thing about being “the adult” in the room is you learn rather emphatically how you believe yourself to be isn’t how you are. Suddenly, you’re before a classroom of eighteen-year-olds scrolling on their cellphones who, someday & mostly for money, wish to open you with their scalpels & manage your stocks. Forget the career center & the proper advice. There’re only two options. Tell me about yourself, as in the Spartan formality of an interview, or, Tell me about yourself, as in soon my dead brother will make his way into the conversation. As in, I’ll never be entirely comfortable at the beach, as in, I love clichés as much as I love my mother. Where’s that thing you call a heart, the muscle that cuts through the mustard as well as it cuts through you? Be that kid, be happy.