I say fuck too much.

As soon as he said midterm grades, my palms started to sweat. We all nervously chattered around the prep tables as he called everyone one by one. My heart was in my throat when he called my name.

You have perfect attendance.

Your practicals have been impressive, 90 out of 100.

Your quizzes are kick ass, 48.5 out of 50.

This gives you a 92 in the class, the highest grade.

I love having you in class, you are quiet, but diligent and have some serious talent. You get shit done and do it well. Your food, if ever off, is just a fraction off. Please keep showing up everyday, because I will call your ass if you miss even a day. You belong here.

All I could muster was, "Thanks Chef," and I walked back to my prep table with shaking hands and a stupid fucking grin on my face. I could hardly talk. My classmates were all asking each other what their scores were. They finally asked me and I told them. They knew the highest grade because Chef told them. He would later announce it was me. I sat through the congratulations in a total state of awe.

I wanted to scream, SEE! SEE YOU MOTHER FUCKERS! I'M NOT TOO OLD!

I wanted to hug Chef and tell him that he has inspired me more than any other culinarian in my entire life.

I wanted to cry, because fucking shit, validation feels good.

I wanted to do cart wheels I was so happy, even knowing that it would likely end in a head injury of some sort.

I still can't believe it. I still can't believe that I am doing this, that I am here. That somehow I have been allowed to live my dream, when so many people can't.

Fuck, I am happy.