He stares at the framed graduate degrees hanging on the office wall. He wishes they offered more assurance, more meaning. To him they document the unfailing stubbornness he tapped into to complete the PhD. Nothing more. He wishes they at least symbolized something greater, that they at least were paid for with his first month’s salary as a tenure-track professor. But wishes only bemoan the work necessary for their fulfillment. Wishes are little bitches that nag in his ear that nothing will ever work out right. His entire education has been unlearning to listen to those voices and instead capture them, encase them behind glass and hang them on walls so they can watch his real work. Pinned butterflies anesthetized and suffocated in their own vituperation. His framed graduate degrees watch from the office wall in awe as he dedicates himself not to a job but to a life. This is the real assurance they provide him.