“Hard.” He said it again, pacing barely-restrained drill-sergeant-style side to side beside the podium. “It’s going to be hard.” Every time he turned back to pace the other way, green fluorescent light flashed across his bald head. He stopped pacing and faced us directly. The room was bated. “It’s not going to be challenging. It’s not going to be difficult. It’s not going to be problematic.” He practically spat that last one. “It’s going to be fucking hard and you’re not going to like it.” I was sitting there on the hard seat, like a student in borrowed clothes, and I was like yeah. To myself, I was all like yeah, and I was leaning forward and feeling that hard seat against my butt bones and my shoulders were tightening just enough, and my eyes were big and my face was focused and I was like yeah and I could feel it--all around me, everyone else in those seats in that room was just like me. We were like yeah, let’s do this. I mean we were *in.* Well, as they say, little did we know. (2017)