I’m sitting in my kitchen at 2 AM. The screen is too bright and my eyes feel like someone rubbed sand in them. I just sent the final files for the annual gala. It’s hideous. It looks like a grocery store circular from 1994. The director—a girl named Megan who is twenty-four and thinks she’s saving the world—asked for neon green and a font that looks like a child wrote it. I didn’t say a word. I just clicked 'save'. My father would laugh his head off. He worked three jobs so I could go to school and "draw pictures." He thought it was a hobby for rich people who didn't have to sweat. He died thinking I was a success because I had an office with a window. Now I’m retired from a career of making corporate brochures look expensive and here I am. Doing "good work" for the refugee center. Except I’m not doing good work. I’m a volunteer clerk. A high-end typist. It's PATHETIC. Last week Megan brought in a photo of a child from the border. A small boy with dusty hair and eyes that look like they’ve seen the end of the world. She wanted me to put a "fun, celebratory" border around it because the fundraiser is a party. My stomach turned. A real artist—someone with a backbone—would have said no. They would have explained why that's offensive. Why it's CRASS. I just asked her if she wanted the border in gold or silver. She picked gold. I spent three hours making it shine. I’m a coward. That’s the joke. I spent forty years learning how to guide the eye and how to evoke empathy through color and space. I know how to make people feel something. I know how to make them reach for their wallets. Instead, I give them exactly what they ask for. I’m like a waiter who sees a customer ordering a steak well-done with a side of chocolate syrup and just says "Coming right up." I’m the one killing the steak and I’m smiling while I do it. People tell me it’s great that I "give back." My daughter says I’m an inspiration. She’s an idiot. I’m sitting here with a glass of cheap red wine watching the upload bar crawl across the screen—knowing this poster will raise exactly zero dollars. It’s a waste of paper. It’s a waste of the life my parents gave me. I could fix it in ten minutes. I could make it scream. I won't. I'll just sit here and let the bar reach 100%. The house is quiet. The hum of the refrigerator is the only thing talking to me. My hands shake a little when I use the mouse now... not from age but from the sheer boredom of being a human printer. I looked at the "creative" folder I used to keep on my desktop. It’s empty. I deleted the old sketches years ago. Why have ideas when you can just have instructions? It’s easier to be a tool than a person. This charity helps people like my grandmother. People who came here with nothing but a suitcase and a prayer and a heavy coat. They deserve better than neon green posters. They deserve my BEST. But I’m tired. I’ve spent my whole life trying to please people who don't know what they’re looking at. My mother always said "Keep your head down and do the work." Well, I’m doing it, Ma. I'm keeping my head so low I can't even see the screen anymore. I just got an email back on my phone. "Love it! You're a lifesaver!" I want to throw the phone against the wall. I want to tell her she has the aesthetic taste of a brick. Instead, I’ll probably just send a "You're welcome" with a smiley face tomorrow. I’m a hack. A seventy-two-year-old hack who believes in the cause but apparently doesn't believe in herself enough to save it from a bad font. I'm going to bed. The world can stay ugly.