I sit in bed. The sheets are adult blue plaid now and I don't know where my yummy eggs and coffee sheets are. Probably rolled up in the attic. I should be smarter, wiser or something like that but my GRE scores don't reflect any such thing so I'm taking them again, on a Wednesday this time. I'm gandering at paid internships in cities with taller buildings than the Corning Tower. I'm drooling at J-school programs that guarantee packaged futures for a price.
I'm looking forward to seeing Black Swan in theatres and I hope Anne Hathaway gets the part of Lois Lane in the upcoming Superman. I wish Joss Whedon would just do Wonder Woman, costs be damned, because if anyone else does it, it'll be like Catwoman. I no longer like how I look in purple lipstick. The two people I like the most at school, non-romantically, are suddenly engaged and there are rings and wedding magazines where there were just incense sticks and dinosaur piñatas. I've learned to clean my hair out of the shower drain.
I don't question that I still want to be a journalist, but I do wonder why. I've wondered at this motivation a lot lately, probably because graduate schools want to know too. I do love to write and I do want to help people. I don't mind a small salary. I do want to talk to new people every day. I'm good at some other things but they seem too self-serving. I do see ways to be creative and innovative and I see opportunities to lead. But as much as I want people to say, she's driven, career-oriented and well on her way, I also want people to say she's insane, unpredictable and we have no idea what she'll end up doing. Sometimes I want to reject a clear path and sometimes I have a craving for sushi.
