If I grew an inch for every time I’ve said that in the past year, I might’ve been able to fulfill my lifelong dream of playing college basketball. Just kidding. I would probably be at least 200 inches tall. But in all seriousness, your life just gets you. All of the sudden it sticks its slightly creepy and definitely overwhelming head around the corner of the main ballroom in your university’s student center, once again deciding to change itself.
“Journalism. You love newspapers, remember? You should look into this,” my life whispered to me as I perused the major fair.
“No, life. Remember how I love International Relations and like vague, flexible majors?” I snappishly replied. Life dropped the argument for a while. At least until I returned to my dorm to find one of my hall mates had posted a mock newspaper about “midtermitis” all over our communal bathrooms.
“Dang,” I thought. “This girl just one-upped me!” But why would I think such a thing?? Oh yeah, because life had somehow convinced me that my life wasn’t as together as I thought it was. I guess I was just fooling myself into thinking that wearing a pencil skirt every other day meant that you had things figured out. I LOVE to write. Why wasn’t I majoring in something that would get me a job where I would get paid to artfully vomit words on a page?
But that’s not all. The next day I was crowned the Queen of my freshman writing class, receiving the best score on our first real essay. And guess what? The same thing happened on my next essay (except I got more points on the second essay, but who’s counting). I was doing well in all my other classes, but there was something about freshman writing, one of the most hated classes on any college campus, that I just loved.
Oh wait. I love to write. A lot.