The dumbest thing I used to tell myself was that I had ~missed out on making a zine, like there's a brief window in your teenage years or early twenties where if you're going to do something like that you get it out of your system and then age gracefully into the next phase of your craft, whatever that means for you. Obviously that's a frame riddled with self-defeating expectations and I failed to make anything on my own terms for years, even though I spent just as much time writing alienated, rage-fueled poetry about the beauty of the world as working on my social work degree. In fact, I wrote alienated, rage-fueled poetry about the beauty of the world to cope with the cognitive dissonance involved in getting a social work degree. They were different ways of expressing both an infinite optimism of what people are capable of being, for and with each other, and the deep disgust of seeing that potential desecrated in new and imaginative ways every day- anguish born of an...