I work four jobs.

They say I’m ambitious.

First job: I do research in a laboratory, full time, 40 hours a week. The room is in the basement level, no windows, no clocks, rarely even another human being. I stare at a computer all day until the numbers and their meanings are lost on me and when I sleep I see visions of graph after graph ghosted across my eyelids - I am a robot, a machine, starved of sunlight and human contact. The only thing to pass my lips in weeks are energy drinks and reheated fast food and if I’m LUCKY a “hello” to the night janitor when I’m leaving.

My second and third jobs, a proctor and a learning assistant. I get to teach kids who hate me and who hate the material I’m desperately trying to teach them. I’ve been shouted at by my students more than once while walking around campus.

My fourth job: I donate plasma. Twice a week. I’m greeted by cold and stony faced nurses who poke and prod me and stick needle after needle into me.

I sell my body to survive.

I’m also a full time student. I’m taking 21 credits currently. The hardest classes in my major, too. How do I do it? Because I’m fortunate enough to be able to afford to shove pill after pill into my body, to replace what’s been taken, to keep me from fucking killing myself.

My parents have the audacity to be proud of me. To be fucking proud of me selling and wearing away piece after piece of me to survive so that I can get a job and be middle class and pay off student loans for the rest of my fucking life. They’re proud of this dried up, crumbling husk I’ve become.

All it would take is one strong breeze and I’d be gone.

But I’m ambitious.

I work four jobs.