I once read that the best indicator of your ideal job is the obsession of your nine-year-old self. At that age, I enjoyed reading Harry Potter, building with Legos, rollerblading down steep hills, selling hand-crafted Pony Bead lizards door-to-door, and writing incessantly about our family trip to the Rocky Mountains.

For all these years, my inner child has been telling me I’m meant to write, to build, and to profoundly impact someone–or many someones’–lives. I’m exploring career options that will allow me to achieve all three.

If I ever become wealthy, I plan to open a little dog-friendly nook called “Rube Goldberg’s,” which will be filled miscellaneous hardware, shelves of books, a cafe that serves chai tea lattes and artisan chocolate, and a podium at which my hopefully-by-then husband will give lectures on whatever strikes his fancy.

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