Writing is hard.
Writing sucks. A lot (of dick, if we’re going beyond PG here).
Writing takes me forever.
So that explains my absence. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve conjured up the “Add New Post” screen, only to look at the clock and realize two hours of writing would cut my sleeping time down immensely.
Writing a post means spending time away from the book I’ve been reading or the people I could get to know. Writing means solitude, a word and thing I’ve been trying to avoid as of late. Writing means having to pay close attention to detail and trying so very hard not to make a mistake I’m sure my “enemies” would call me out on Twitter for.
Three years of college and I’ve made some enemies, apparently. Imagine that.
I’ve spent the last couple days at home, watching my grandparents’ belongings get sold to strangers and Walnut trees fall in all their green-and-brown glory.
Some things are ending, but others are beginning. Like my life. My life, man.
Seven credits of college classes separate me from what I’m told is actually – this time – the “real world.” They had lied to me before when I graduated from high school. College isn’t the real world. College is the excuse I use for the drunken weekends and the hangover I have on Friday mornings that is too severe to make it through that morning’s class. But the professor understands when I email him. It’s college, after all.
More than 30 credits separated me from life then. Now I’m down to seven. Seven credits. Seven.
I could graduate early. Get a job. Leave my friends. Get an apartment. Save money. Pay back my loans.
Writing is hard, yet I’m trying to make a career out of it.
A career that I can actually see now. A career where an email on Friday morning from a hungover Emily just won’t fly anymore. I’m more mature than most at my age, but I am having difficulty with accepting this.