As I sit on my orange director’s chair with an electric heating pad under my feet and throw blanket wrapped around my head like a Pagri, trying to negate signs of frostbite, I reflect. There is no reason for my body to not have feeling. Ever. I reflect on my 4:50am rise from slumber and the warmth of my body lingering, taunting me, from my bed sheets as I began my chilly, 50cc-scooter ride downtown. You don’t need a writing degree, or any degree for that matter, to hand out flyers for some no-name company, yet here you are with a boastful college degree handing them out anyway. I consider the short-lived responsibility of cheerfully distributing flyers while enduring below freezing temperatures, negotiate the favorable ratio of actual-hours-worked to actual-hours-booked, factor in the mental capacity/growth gained and/or lost, and I ponder. I can hear my writing degree screaming for attention just as loudly as my body is crying for warmth. A new year is approaching and my brain cells and caffeine tolerance aren’t getting any stronger. It’s time to kick some ass and take some names.