Making the attempt to speak, at least

One doesn't need a reason to write, but one does need something to write about, does one not? And I have spent weeks on nothing, so what is there to say? I could create a world; I could live in one created by another, and by so doing either, I could ignore this one. Which would be lovely, as far as I am concerned.

I'd rather be more impressive than that, though. I'd like to impress at least myself. It isn't even hard to do, so I think it's doable, maybe. Maybe.

Where's a muse when you need one?

I do enjoy a good ramble through my own thoughts. I apologize, internet.

If anything was happening, I'd say more on the subject of anything at all.

My brain is starting to atrophy. I don't much care for the feeling.

It's uncomfortable, to say the least. Sorta sludgy.

Blech.

Trufax

I have spent the last couple of weeks inhaling a new fictional universe.

(Fabulous.)

I thought so, yes.

(Instead of accomplishing anything.)

Wouldn't say that, necessarily. Personal record, you know.

(Anything useful. Like finding a job. With which to earn money. Which you desperately need.)

Killjoy. I painted the trim in my room. Kept my room relatively clean. 

(Relatively being the operative word.)

No pleasing you, is there?

(Of course not.) 

Because you're me.

(And I have standards.)

To which I never, ever live up.

(Precisely so.)

...Fabulous.

While It Lasted

The death of a dream is a difficult thing, and moreso when your own hand must deal the killing stroke. 

It was a secret, she whispered, and now you've gone and ruined it. You made me think about it, really think about it. Made me try to understand it. Made me realize the truth about it. Made me give it up. 

Now it has to die, she says, and she cries for what never was in the first place.

gpoy

I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be one of *them*.

You know, *them*. The students, real ones. The ones who have everything done on time and usually about three weeks early. The ones who aren't worried about finals, or if they are, they're just worried that they haven't studied enough, not that they haven't studied at all. The ones who are so on top of everything that nothing lands on their head and catches them by surprise. The ones who never stay up all night writing a paper (or, more likely, skip the class to write the paper due).

I wonder about what that feels like, sometimes.

Then I snort and tell myself it would be dreadfully boring.

And I go back to writing the paper that was due half an hour ago.

2 down, 1 to go

finals...

finals are the worst.

to be fair, i have very few, and they aren't hard, and i'm not particularly worried about any of them at all.

i just don't wanna.

Carpe College

Today, I will attend my last regular class as a full-time student at Southern Adventist University.

I'm trying not to think about it, but I can't help myself. I also don't want to let it flit away without somehow marking the occasion. I feel like I should make some kind of speech, or cause an uproar in class, or even just ask a question, or maybe make a comment or two loud enough for the class to actually hear. I should do . . . something. I want to savor each moment, actually seize it, because this is it, guys. This is the end of my undergraduate collegiate experience.

And now I'm making myself cry. I really shouldn't.

I guess I don't mind too much. Crying is how I know I'm feeling something intense, whether it's sadness, anger, or even happiness. It's a sick-making mixture of all three right now. Add to that that I'm mortally terrified and you have me figured, don't you? A shivery, weepy mess.

But I'm not going to ruin this day, this last day, this very last day, with my hysterics. The sobbing wreck is going in her corner until tomorrow, because today, I attend my last college class.

It's going to be the best class I have ever had.