I graduated college into the summer of 2008, a summer that was about as far as my life could see: I’d figure out my future, I told myself, in the fall. For I had the crown-jewel of resume bullet-points awaiting me that summer—a much-coveted internship at MoMA that paid me a total of $3000 for three months of booking lunches, assembling poster stands in the lobby, and getting yelled at by my boss whenever the stapler was amiss. To make that $3000 last the summer, I ate $4 pizza specials for dinner and took a room in a makeshift pension house in Brooklyn; I had to watch out for rats on trips to the bathroom, yes, and I had to manually carry my room’s entire padlocked door into the hallway to get in and out, sure, but I was happy to swaddle myself from the world. I had kind roommates, access to the entire MoMA archive, and most importantly, I was financially independent for the first time in my life.