Heed, mother Buffers. I have some advice, and I'm one broad seasoned to pure perfection. (That was an Italian chef kiss.) I've been tenderized, battered, dry rubbed, soaked in brine and medium rared.

Enough about last night with your dad.

You're struggling for direction. Allow me to salt you with counsel. I was thrust into college with such force from my own ass hauling far away from my pristine(ish) high school lifestyle when my lovely alma mater, the University of Florida asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

My time capsule from the second grade said "famous," so check that box please. No?

Fine, English. I dig writing. I get wet from bludgeoning papers with red ink. In my free time, I verbally assault business signs that are riddled with grammatical errors. I'm what the French like to call a good time.

"English? What the fresh pile of turtle shit are you going to do with that degree?" asked various proper nouns.

Fine. Journalism. (Remember when they had schools for that? Stop trying to Google how old I am. You'd hit this so hard.)

Still, I was pushed to consider more-lucrative areas. But I wanted to write, dammit, so I stuck to my journalism guns. (Hold please while I take my second morning pull of whiskey. Cough. Heavens to Betsy, that's cheap shit. Cough.)


I got super anxious when a major was assigned to my name. (Anxiety later ballooned into panic disorder, yet to leave, but that's why Jesus invented pharmaceuticals and bong resin.) I wondered, what if I want to change my major? Will I be considered a flip-flopper? (Also your dad's pet name for me.) What if I start banging the school dean? Will I get 86ed from J-school? What if I decide during senior year's advanced editing that I want to be Justin Timberlake, instead, when I grow up?

Well, it all worked out, and here we are. (Glug, glug. Cough. Glug.)

My advice: Figure out what you want to do with life — but while you're in school. And don't settle. Don't be swayed by carrying on family professions. Don't let proper nouns tell you what to do. It's your future, and you can change it seven times if you want. Because going back to school a decade later to check the box you originally wanted to check really blows ass. (Literally. It's called stress diarrhea.)

Sure, your parents may drown you in wine coolers, but an extra semester or two now, when you're sprightly, is far easier to tack on than when your balls start hitting the toilet water. (Maybe they already do. Call me.)

For now, decide whether Bob Marley or Kurt Cobain will be duct taped to your wall. Whether you'll have processed cheese food or hot ham water for dinner. If you should go to class or hit the slopes. Whether you should tell your mother that your father is porking me rotten.

Now go spank that shiny liver like a good college student and tell your dad to fucking text me back already.


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