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The truth was, working for Mad Science felt so much better than everything else in my life. While I trucked around Brooklyn with enough Borax to decimate ISIS, I was also in grad school for social work. I had a social work job where, every week, I was responsible for finding different and creative ways to say no: "No, we can't find your family housing." "No, your son will not graduate." "No, you won't get that check." "We don't have space." "We don't have jobs." "I am sorry." While I had held social work-type jobs for years, it felt particularly painful to hold both of these positions at once. It didn't make sense that Hydrogen Heather could help four-year-olds make magic but Real Heather couldn't get adults the help they really needed. I wanted to give these people everything, but the most I could often manage was a bus card.I started to spend more and more time at Mad Science, where—and I'm ashamed to say this—I felt important. But while I dominated every children's birthday party (it's hard not to dominate when you're 20 years older), my finances lagged. Mad Science collected between $225 and $375 per party, but I received just $40 of that total sum. Yes, I could receive tips, but because the families didn't know that I got just 17 percent of their payment, my tips never went much higher than $20. (Another possibility: I was not very good.) If I factored in the time I spent commuting, I sometimes made as little as $6 an hour. I might have imagined myself as the "New York's Hottest Mad Scientist," but my paychecks said otherwise.It didn't make sense that Hydrogen Heather could help four-year-olds make magic but Real Heather couldn't get adults the help they really needed.
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