I swear, the sheer comedic timing of the universe sometimes… it’s a sick, twisted joke, and I’m the punchline, every damn time. Today, my mentor – let’s call him Stan, because that’s what everyone calls him, an almost clinical designation for a man whose soul has been professionally leached out over three decades of suburban commercial builds – Stan, he calls me into his office, right? And I’m already vibrating, like, an actual low-frequency hum, because the email about the Elmwood proposal came in this morning, and it’s *mine*. My first solo. Not a glorified intern project, not a glorified *junior* project. Mine. From conceptual design to client presentations. The whole shebang. A small, but significant, mixed-use residential. And Stan, he’s leaning back in his ergonomic nightmare chair, eyes bloodshot, muttering about the market, about how he should have listened to his wife and gone into “bespoke furniture making” because “at least you get to touch actual wood, not just spreadsheets and contractor bids.” He’s talking about how his neighbors just put in an infinity pool and he’s still paying off the second mortgage on his kid’s tuition, and the commute from Chino Hills is killing him, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Just this torrent of weary, bitter regret. And I’m sitting there, nodding, making appropriate sympathetic noises – “Yeah, that’s tough, Stan,” “The market really is brutal, huh?” – while inside my chest, there’s this supernova going off. A blinding, deafening explosion of pure, unadulterated, childish glee. I can feel the corners of my mouth trying to turn up, betraying me, and I’m having to consciously clench my jaw, practically dislocating it, to maintain a neutral expression. Because if I smiled, if even a flicker of my absolute ecstatic, manic excitement broke through, he’d see it. He’d see the stark, grotesque contrast between his utter despair and my burgeoning, naïve optimism. And then… then what? Would it deflate him further? Or worse, would he see it as some kind of personal affront, an indictment of his own choices, and decide to make my fledgling project a living hell? The thought alone made my stomach clench, a cold, hard knot forming right below my sternum. So I sat there, a human sponge for his accumulated disappointment, absorbing every syllable of his “this job is a soul-sucking void” sermon, while my brain was already rendering floor plans, sketching elevations, mentally arguing with the city planning commission. I was literally planning my escape from the purgatory he described, fueled by the very thing that had brought him to his knees. It felt… predatory. Like I was feasting on his misery, using it as fertilizer for my own ambitions. And the worst part is, I drove home – another brutal commute, though mine is only from Pasadena, so I can’t really complain, can I? – and the minute I was alone, the minute my garage door closed, I let out this involuntary, guttural laugh. A laugh that was part relief, part triumph, and part sheer, unadulterated horror at the dark, dark humor of it all. I’m still laughing, quietly, into my pillow. It’s 2 AM. I have to wake up in three hours. But the Elmwood project… it’s going to be beautiful. It has to be.