“My life has no purpose, no direction, no aim, no meaning, and yet I’m happy. I can’t figure it out. What am I doing right?” –Snoopy
I discovered my purpose as a sophomore in college. I had previously been a graphic design major, but was not a promising student in the eyes of my professors due to a lack of enthusiasm for helvetica. My childhood dream of writing for television was nudging me like an attention-starved dog, so I finally decided to ignore everyone’s advice to “study what you love, but make sure it’s still something that will actually earn you money” and I became an English major.
I didn’t see that woman who delivered me again until my first visit to the ladydoctor. She walked into the examination room with the determination of Lucy Van Pelt and proceeded to take credit for my appearance. I kept my pants on as I told her my hopes and dreams for the future—move to Los Angeles, write for NBC, dethrone Tina Fey, save the world. After my medical history was recorded on her clipboard, she sat on the stool next to me and smiled. She patted my shoulder as I locked eyes with the speculum and she said: “Some day soon, Jordan, you are going to be an artist. And I see I was right about those feet.”