I'm staring at that fucking pottery studio across the street again, probably for the tenth time today. I literally pay for my mother's COPD meds and preschool tuition and my own damn corporate health insurance and I can't even remember the last time I touched clay. My BA in fine arts just feels like… a phantom limb. What the hell is wrong with me? This isn't imposter syndrome; this is existential dread, pure and simple.