At the glorious age of 15 (yes, 15, admittedly too old for this to happen), my favorite activities included binge-watching The Walking Dead, and searching my asthma symptoms on Web M.D. and diagnosing myself with immaculate conception. I never shook the latter hobby, as on average I send a picture of my tonsils to my mother twice a week to make sure I’m not dying. It was fall 2014. The Houston air was transitioning from humid to slightly less humid, and I had traded in my Sperry’s for a darker look of a Miley Cyrus lob, and a Sharpie tattoo of a triangle that captured the essence of my new high school identity.