121904

Realizing that yes, I still have not changed my wall calendar from October and still not caring. I'm lacking some sort of profound inspiration or some of that inner turmoil that I so often find a pre-requisite to writing, but also not caring. Thinking that Ernest Hemmingway and I need to go on a date real soon so that I can have the experience of relating to someone who would theoretically, if still alive, understand me. It's getting to that point in the year where you can't remember the last time the temperature danced above 60 degrees and you still can't fathom the next time it will, leaving at least me in utter despair. My feelings more often match weather this time of year, cold mostly. While many of my friends have spent the last weeks searching for someone to cuddle with and play the let’s pretend we love each other game, I've become bitter and standoffish.

I've come to understand that in exactly one year the university will hand me a diploma, well more likely mail me since it was only too recently that I endured my last commencement ceremony, and I feel like that is all I will have. All the sudden real life expectations will be thrust upon me. Weird thought. Mind you, I still have plenty of learning to do between now and the next December and maybe I will have some sort of epiphany that will reveal my life purpose with step by step directions on how to get there.