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I am sitting in my girlfriend’s living room at 5 A.M. wondering what I may be doing with my life. It's one of those times that seem to hit you every now and then. Two tests later today. Didn't really study. Procrastination drags the thoughts of "What do I really want to be doing with my life?" into my head. And then you think "Yeah, perfect time to be wondering that." But curious things happen to people who lie to themselves. Their heart's rear their ugly needs least when you expect. Deep down I want to tell stories. I want people to care about the characters I have imagined. I want them to feel the emotions that I feel so easily. And that's what brings me here at 5 A.M. on a day that is supposed to decide the rest of my life academically.

I've been told my entire life that I can do whatever my heart desires. And none of that new age bullshit that's been going around forever, my parents really believed that I was bright enough to do whatever I wanted. Born rich enough, given every opportunity reasonably possible. Parents pulled themselves out of the muck of India and excelled in the United States both being top-notch scientists. I was never really asked to be a doctor or a lawyer like the other kids but I was told to be damn successful.

It's a curse to be told you're bright from a young age. Being told you're smarter than the rest opens up a world of laziness and the mantra "Why bother trying?" You watch the world pass by. People get better grades and earn respect in ways that you don't even bother to care about. Of course it stings but you keep on moving forward.

So I set off to be a doctor. Eventually I told myself: I love people too much to be a doctor, let me really help them by being a psychiatrist. After a while I start telling myself: I love people too much to be a psychiatrist, let me really help them by being a psychologist. Huh. What lie am I going to tell myself tonight? I don't love real people enough to be a psychiatrist, let me really help myself by being a storyteller?

And what are the odds that my stories will touch anyone more than the next guy's? Every common Joe has something to say, what makes me so special? If you've read this far you can tell my writing isn't as strong as it should be. If the medium is the message then I'm screwed as a writer.

So I sit here at 5 A.M. with a girl so says she loves me, parents who have never been anything but supportive and myself as a nearly graduated senior in college. Life should be good. I'm at the peak of my existence and yet I am not happy. I don't know what is worse, that their are stories trapped within me or that I can't tell them properly. I sit here scared and lonely at 5 A.M. feeling like a fool. I am not a religious man nor do I have a deep affinity towards god but these words ring truth in my heart tonight: "to whom much has been given, much shall be required from him"
-Luke 12-48

That is what brings be here today, the need to write. The need to tell stories. The need to find someone that might care. The need to read and learn from young and old. Needs bring me here tonight. Needs and fate.

Working late. Most had left. Finally they switched the floors and me and another bloke slid down the slope and out of the building.

We all had to go to a work celebration. I caught the last bus and sat up the back. Someone made a crack about monsters and a fight broke out in the back seat. I decided that one of the people who was angry might be a monster. We got out of the bus at the destination. The greyhounds were restless, angry. I wondered if the monsters would strike.

I was wearing a pink skirt and big boots. I slid down a muddy slope but stayed on my feet so just my boots were muddy. Laughing.

At a big house with too much clutter. 1940s rose patterned carpet on the floor, painted over in white paint with a roller. A phonebook sat on the floor and the painter had painted over that as well. Trying to tidy up. Piece by piece.

Pouring boiling water on the thistles in the driveway.

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