I graduated from art school ten years ago, and now I'm going back. We have a sort of reunion. The dean of visual arts is retiring, and there's a big party in her honor. I became a man in Miami or, at the very least, began the road to manhood. Now, I'm well into being a man. It doesn't get easier. In fact, it gets harder; there's more weight. I'm nervous and excited. I will be seeing teachers I haven't seen in ten years. I haven't spoken to some of my peers in a decade. I worked all day, and my head is spinning. I take off on Friday, and I don't know how I'll feel. It's like a test of sorts. My identity is fragile, and this will test me. I doodled a little during the slow periods at the job today. I doodled mainly dirty little drawings. I lived in my head, and time traveled back in time. I tried to remember how I got to this point. I don't believe in predeterminism or destiny, but I believe genetics weigh heavy. I wonder if failure is subjective. Life is not sport, but we can measure it as such. It's not proper to do that though. Life is a combination of objectivity and subjectivity. Maybe, I'm just telling myself that so I don't have to wallow in disappointment. Maybe, life is complicated and so much of it is how we frame it. I'm an artist first and foremost; this trip is about confronting myself as an artist. This trip is sure to kick me right square in the nuts or stroke them kindly. Maybe, it'll be a little pleasure and pain; they do go together. It was a long day, and I needed to process some of this. Sometimes, there's no time to search through our minds. So, I did just that. What did I find? I found that I'm a complicated little fucker, and I appreciate you for reading this little ramble...