A master's degree is a scam. Well, a master's degree in education or liberal arts, like the one I have, where you pursue it out of uncertainty, desperately hoping it will somehow lead to financial success, is indeed a scam.

I wish I could have a conversation with my past self, to delve deeper into the delusions that made me believe a graduate degree in teaching would bring me quick wealth. Quite the opposite, I find myself far from being rich. I'm broke and unemployed, with job suggestions from Indeed prompting me to apply for a part-time managerial position at an Outback Steakhouse because my "profile matches" the job description.

Now, let me clarify, there's nothing inherently wrong with working at an Outback Steakhouse. Bloomin' Onions are a national treasure. It's just that being encouraged to apply for a part-time position at an Australian-themed chain restaurant after sacrificing my existence as collateral to accumulate thousands of dollars in debt for a graduate degree in teaching English is profoundly demoralizing.

My mom, fueled by her fifth glass of pinot grigio for the night, has a simple solution to my job troubles: "If you can't get a job, get a husband."

It seems to be her life motto. Become a doctor, a lawyer, or find a rich husband. In moments like these, I wish I had less respect for my elders and could unleash my frustration.

"Why did you marry my dad then?" I would retort. "He's not a doctor, a lawyer, or rich."

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I don't mean to throw my dad under the bus here, but his only notable skills as a plumber are constructing figures out of PVC pipes and unclogging drains. There are wealthier plumbers than him, but he's too kind and gullible to charge people accordingly. The only times I've seen him get angry are when the Yankees lose or when he forgets to record "Ancient Aliens."

"If she could find a husband, she would have one. Who would want to marry her with that personality?" my dad retorts, taking a sip of his beer and cranking up the volume on a rerun of "Ice Road Truckers."

"Come to Korea with me!" Lucy pleaded, taking a swig of her beer and casting her best puppy dog eyes. "You might not make a fortune, but think of the teaching experience, the exciting new place, and who else will be my de facto personal trainer? Do you really want to be responsible for my shrinking ass?"

My post-graduation period has been a never-ending spiral of job searching, interspersed with my parents' nagging and nights of drinking with my grad school cohort. Our bonds were forged in the fiery depths of our demanding grad program. When we weren't teaching full-time for no pay, we were attending classes or pulling all-nighters in the library. Lucy and I both suffered under the tyranny of insane mentor teachers, finding solace in our shared experiences of demanding expectations, petty behavior, and questionable teaching methods.

"Fuck it," I slurred finishing my beer, "I'll apply. Let's do it!"

If I'm going to make use of this ridiculous degree, for the love of God, let it be as far away as possible from any and all TV shows my parents obsess over about Alaska.

In just two weeks, I completed the application, went through the interview process, and secured the job. A few months later, I was all set to start teaching at the same school as Lucy.

The flight from JFK to ICN spans over 15 hours. It's a preview, paid for by my employer, of what life will be like without the incessant panting of my parents' chihuahua, the constant questioning about when I'll find a job, and the bragging about my sisters' success. Some people might consider these 15+ hours on plane torture. But for me, away from my parents and on my own for the first time in my life, it was pure heaven.

Now, I'll admit, that nagging voice at the back of my mind, the one that haunted me while brushing my teeth, taking showers, and trying to sleep, kept growing louder as the flight's countdown continued.

"Hey," Lucy whispered, breaking the tension, "Did you know they serve free booze on this flight?"

Eh, it'll be fine, I tell myself. Just fine.