These are the notes to myself I have taped above my drafting table. They’re normally squeezed between triangles, a cutting mat, T-square, and some ellipses and curves I never use any more but keep crucifying from long thin nails in each new apartment of every new year.

I think of these missives to myself in the voice of a coach (except for the little one, but we’ll get to that). Specifically one who’s red haired and balding (with a fierce patch of curly neck hair, macheted below his neckline every few weeks). A baby faced and small lacrosse coach/admissions councilor. One with a soft voice that could, through fiery intensity, be brought to a tenor roar. Usually this was in furiously despairing disappointment, but every once in a while it was in uncontainable, genuine excitement. His name’s Sam Gaudet and he would always wear a bow tie to his day job and at games, but like a real jock, I always called him Coach.

That’s the thing I miss most about high school: having a coach. He’s a man that every committed student athlete is a little bit in love with. We look to them for approval like cats that kill rodents and present them to their masters. We’d never admit how much we care about Coach’s reaction. And we’re jealous of his attention, like rival siblings. The other thing I miss is caring about hip hop. Which is why I thought it was still worth posting that little scrap that predates the motivational posters in my studio space.