When I was sixteen, my parents divorced—an event I took in stride only because I was too busy staring at my biceps in the mirror. My father moved into an apartment about thirty minutes away, and once a month he’d pick me up, grill a couple of ribeyes, and try to civilize me. It was his way of maintaining paternal authority through meat.
One evening on his patio, with the smell of charcoal and masculinity wafting in the air, he asked me what I wanted to do with my life after high school. At the time, I was an aspiring bodybuilder with zero interest in college. I wanted a job that paid decently, had steady hours, and left me free to chase the holy trinity of youth: muscle, mirrors, and admiration.
I told him I was thinking about becoming a sanitation engineer. A few guys at my gym drove garbage trucks and claimed it was honest work with great benefits.
My father nearly choked on his steak.
“You can’t be a garbage man,” he said, wiping his mouth with the precision of a surgeon preparing to deliver bad news.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re too vain.”
That line hit like a barbell to the skull.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
He leaned back and launched into his Socratic cross-examination. “Picture this: You’re at a cocktail party. Everyone’s introducing themselves—doctor, lawyer, software engineer, business executive. Then they get to you. What do you say? ‘Hi, I’m Jeff, and I pick up your trash’? I should think not.”
“Oh my God, Dad, you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he said, stabbing the last piece of steak like a punctuation mark. “I’m your father. Now finish your meat and start planning for college.”
That night I turned to Master Po, my invisible philosopher-therapist, for guidance.
“Master Po,” I asked, “why did my father insult me by calling me vain?”
“Grasshopper,” he said, “your father did not insult you. He simply named your disease. Truthful words are not beautiful; they bruise. Flattering words are lovely but poisonous. Your father loves you enough to deliver the ugly truth—that you are a creature driven by vanity and status.”
“But this means I have to go to college,” I said. “I’ve spent all my high school years pumping iron and admiring my reflection. I’m too dumb for college.”
“Fear not, Grasshopper,” said Master Po. “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
“My steps are small,” I said.
“That is fine,” said Master Po. “An ant on the move does more than a sleeping ox.”
And so it was: my path to higher learning began not in inspiration but in insult—proof that sometimes enlightenment arrives medium-rare, served with a side of humility.
Cinemorphosis 
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