I was twenty-one years old and it was a Thursday when I realized I had made a complete shit storm of my life. 

A few months prior, I'd made a choice that, at the time, had seemed to me rather adult: defer enrolling in the Master's program in Film Theory and Criticism at the University of Miami to instead to gain some "practical experience" working in production. This was actuality an idiotic idea for several reasons, the most significant being that I had no desire to actually make films and I never had. My passion was in studying Film. I wanted to end up in an academic setting, not on a film set. My hey-I-should-become-a-production-assistant-they-get-paid-nothing-and-work-round-the-clock-and-wouldn't-being-treated-like-a-minion-be-kind-of-fun idea made zero sense, and I couldn't believe I had gotten myself into such a ridiculous situation that began so early in the morning.

"How would you feel if you had to work on holidays?" two of the producers asked me during round three of my interview for a job that would require that I learn how to make coffee.