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I realized I am not here to make people feel comfortable.

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Get a job at a chain of boardwalk stands through a guy who sold your dad weed a few times. Spend the summers being accused of ripping off tourists and drunk guidos, come up with an endless stream of smart-ass reasons why you can’t “just give me one” of your prizes, which depending on where you’re stationed could mean CDs, sports plaques, Phantom Menace merchandise or half-cartons of cigarettes.

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Gain a couple pounds.  You have bags under your eyes, not because you’re tired, but because you’re miserable so your body is metaphorically showcasing how life has punched you in the face.  You still haven’t made your first student loan payment.