Did I ever tell you how I became a journalist?

Run rabbit, run.

Eight minutes. That’s how long it took me to finish a mid-term exam that we’d been given three hours to write.

And I got my grade back that very night.

75. A limp B.

That may sound okay. But there’s a lot riding on this semester — back to school after decades of drug-addled doubt and stagnation.

I need 100 percent in everything. Last night, I bombed. Too fast.

Remember The Tortoise and the Hare? You know that story about a race between these seemingly mismatched animals. The hare, using his God-given abilities, runs circles around the tortoise. In fact, it’s so easy for the hare, he ends up falling asleep before the finish line.

I remember reading it as a kid, and hollering, “Wake up, rabbit! Wake up!”

Very frustrating story. Yeah, I know, rabbits aren’t hares. But I didn’t split hairs — whatever worked for me in the moment. Whatever was easy.

When I got my first degree I wondered what to do next. I made the easy decision: stay in school forever! Easypeasy.

My professor had other ideas.

“Go to journalism school,” he croaked.

“But… can’t I just stay here?” I asked, wounded. “I can be a professor. A nutty professor!”

“It won’t work for you,” he replied. Callous! “You’re more premise than plot.” Bastard!

In other words, I was all style and no substance. A rush of hot air. A journalist.

“Is it easy to get into the program?” I asked, feebly.

“For you, maybe.”

Sold.

And so I embarked on a career in the circulation of hot air. Now, this is going to sound a little arrogant — but stay with me, because it all evens out in the end.

I was a good journalist. Award-winning, even. And totally on drugs. Winning! I mean, who else can stay up every minute of an entire weekend and then report for a Monday morning assignment? A rabbit, that’s who!

Looking back, I just want to scream, Wake up, rabbit or hare! Wake up!

About a year ago, I did wake up. I got clean. The race had long ended. And the tortoises I used to run circles around are bosses and kingpins and Paramount Plus subscribers.

It is better to be a tortoise. There’s wisdom to be gained from the grind.

Does this rabbit have any more tricks? Or am I all out of lucky charms?

“Did I sleep too long?” I asked my mom.

“I think you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

But she’s always like that. Just so happy for the return of her prodigal rabbit.

The night of my botched exam, I was already in half-pajamas when she called from the bottom of the stairs.

“I love you.”

“Thanks,” I replied, glumly.

“You’ve got to learn not to rush though,” she said. “You rush to eat. You rush when you drink. You rush out the door. You’re an hour and a half early, but you’re rushing. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, good night.”

But she wasn’t done yet.

“You should be in the moment. You should think about everything. And even enjoy it.”

Trying to sleep here, mom.

“I don’t know what it’s like to do tests or go to school,” she went on. “But it’s easy for things to go through the cracks. You shouldn’t let that happen. You had three hours to go over the test. But it’s good. It teaches you.

“Besides, 75 percent is pretty good for a crackhead.”

Or a hare learning to be a tortoise.