Fathers of girlfriends are dream eaters. Never tell them your dreams. They’ll slather them with mustard and open mouth chew them in your face, laughing, little crumbs of your dreams spilling down their chins and onto their shirts. When they ask you what you want to be when you grow up, never look them in the eye and say, in your best boy scout voice, “A writer, sir.” As they pick the remains of this dream out of their teeth, they’ll say something like “Yeah, but what are you going to do about money?” and you’ll feel like something is being pulled out of your chest through a hole about the size of a pencil.

Then you’ll wake up in your late thirties with a job and a family, thankful but hollow. You’ll think “I could have…why did I let people take that from me?”

Worse yet, then you may think, if you’re like me, “Wait, maybe I can still…”