I don't know if this even counts as a confession, really. More like... just something I can't stop thinking about. Something that makes me feel pretty sick to my stomach, honestly. I went to this gala last night. A scholarship thing, for benefactors and current recipients and all that. It's supposed to be this amazing opportunity, right? Networking. Making connections. And I just... I felt like an alien. Like I was performing some incredibly bad improv sketch the whole time. It started with the dress. I spent way too much on it, even with the discount, and it still felt wrong. Everyone else was just... effortless. Like they'd been born in silk and jewels. I kept tugging at the straps, trying to make it sit right, feeling every single thread of the borrowed fabric. And then the conversation. Oh god, the conversation. Someone asked me what I "do." I said I was an artist, still figuring things out, trying to make a go of it. And they just kind of… looked at me. Like I'd said I was a professional cloud-watcher. Then they started talking about their summer home in Nantucket, or some ridiculous charity event where they bought a painting for more than I’ve ever made in a year. I just stood there, smiling, nodding, trying to look interested, and inside I was just screaming. Not literally, obviously. But it felt like it. I think maybe the worst part was seeing some of the other scholarship kids. They seemed to fit in better. Or maybe they were just better at pretending than I was. I saw one of them laughing so easily with an older couple, gesturing with their hands, and I just thought, *how do you do that?* How do you make it look so natural when every fiber of your being is telling you that you don't belong here, that you're a fraud, that you're just... taking advantage? I felt so stupid. So naive for thinking this was going to be some kind of Cinderella moment. It was just a reminder. A really, really expensive, uncomfortable reminder. And then this one guy. He cornered me, I guess. He was an older gentleman, one of the big donors, apparently. He asked me about my art, and I started to talk about the inspiration, the process, the way I see color and light... and he cut me off. He said, "Yes, yes, very passionate. But how do you plan to monetize that, dear? You have a responsibility to your benefactors, you know. To make something of yourself." And I just... I saw red. I felt this rush of heat, this ANGER bubbling up, and I just wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to tell him that my art wasn't about money, it was about existing, about trying to make something beautiful in a world that feels so often like it's trying to crush you. But I didn't. I just smiled again. Said something insipid about "exploring different avenues." And the whole time I felt like I was betraying myself. Like I was letting down every single part of me that actually *believes* in what I do. I'm home now. It's 2 AM. I can't sleep. The dress is crumpled on the floor. I just keep thinking about what he said. About monetizing. About responsibility. And I hate it. I hate that I let him get to me. I hate that I felt so small. And I hate that I don't know if I'm even mad at him, or if I'm just mad at myself for being there, for even *trying* to play that game. I don't know what to do with this feeling. I just... I don't know.