Following Your Dreams (And other Terrible Ideas)

A cautionary tale:

This semester has been kicking my trash so far. If I'm not at work I'm at school, if I'm not at school I'm in the library, if I'm not at the library I'm stuffing my face with a handfull of Frosted Flakes and putting pants on simultaneously.

And I'm trying to like English. 

Like in Highschool, when I would drink in the pages and feel the words dripping between my ribs. When the ink would stain my bones black and white. When wet flakes of paper could be found between my teeth.

Now things are different:
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.
Read. Deconstruct. Interpret. Next.

I think I have a dangerous disease. I think the reason I'm not enjoying reading as much as I used to is because I'm not writing myself.

And now suddenly I think I'm going to have to write and write till my wrists break and my eyes turn cold and gray. I think I'm going to have to pay for an education in writing. I think I'm going to make a terrible decision and start listing "Writer" under my intended life plan, with my intended major being "Starvation".

I don't think this is a good idea, I don't advocate it, and I don't think it will turn out well for me. But I don't think I can bear not to write. When I swallow the words and push them into the darkest depths of my stomach I feel them burning ulcers, escaping into my blood, crawling beneath my skin.

My point is, I'm going to start vomiting my excess words here as often as I can. Anecdotes, imagery, even perhaps an occasional poem (gross). I'm hoping you get something out of it. And, if you don't, that I'll realize it soon enough to switch to Business or Accounting.

You know, something practical.